


thunder receding into song

by nymphacae



Category: Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: (he didn't try.), Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Aged-Up Character(s), Autistic Snusmumriken | Snufkin, Depression, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Post-Slash.....its complicated, Queerplatonic Relationships, Recovery, Snorkmaiden Causes Property And Emotional Damage, Survivor Guilt, Trans Snusmumriken | Snufkin, Unreliable Narrator, a LOT of kid OC's, snufkin is the You Tried gold star, the island is heavily inspired by klovharu
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:21:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 48,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27334108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nymphacae/pseuds/nymphacae
Summary: will we wake in the morningand know what it was for,up in our bedroom after the war?-stars, "the beginning after the end"several years after leaving the valley, moomintroll receives a visit.
Relationships: Mumintrollet | Moomintroll & Snorkfröken | The Snork Maiden, Mumintrollet | Moomintroll/Snusmumriken | Snufkin, Too-ticki | Too-Ticky & Mumintrollet | Moomintroll
Comments: 57
Kudos: 54





	1. the transistor

**Author's Note:**

> **content blanket warnings FOR:** trans pregnancy, child abandonment/neglect, implied suicidal thoughts, subtle nods to physical child abuse, death, and just...kind of a warning for Snufkin's Whole Deal, best summarized as 'great googly moogly it's all gone to shit'
> 
> i generally write for a more mature audience, so i do ask that if you are under 18 that you keep yourself in check on the warnings and which will potentially trigger you, there is no shame in opting out of something you aren't comfortable with handling
> 
> BUT if you're still here, then: thanks for giving this a shot, i really do mean it. moomins are such a fantastic verse to explore heavy topics, and i'm sure as hell going to talk about it!!

Somewhere between the tides of Finland, to the lost answers of whatever lay beyond that, there are islands. Some flat and some pointed, as though being pulled in different directions of sky and sea; this land of crooked, brownish-green teeth juts out from the gums of the deep water. Sea and rock melt and split, and the shores are bedded with a carpet of smooth boulders where hattifatteners scuttle into the fissures. 

On one island in particular, lived a cottage varnished in rusted red, and a navy-blue roof which puffed smoke from a metal chimney cap. It looks sleepy, and tucked in by the jutted rock it was built against, but it was content.

Inside the home, it was a very special birthday today, recorded on November 5th, 1942, and the world was very much alive.

A slice of damp light from the outdoors shines upon a very small ginger creature. They’d be mistaken for a moomin ancestor, with their fluffy coat and black face, if not for the fuzzy antennae that sprout from their bangs. Their tail is different too, more akin to a black duck-tail; there’s a thin coat of webbing in their bare mymble feet, too, which can be accounted for by their second parent.

But the first parent — Moominpappa, as he’s called by needy children, Moomintroll by visiting friends — is quick to shoo his child off the kitchen counter with a gentle sweep of his arm.

“No wet feet on the tops, Fjarille,” he reminds her. “You don’t want your party food to taste like rubber, do you?”

She deflates, picking at the crudely-cut yellow star patches on her lavender sweater. “No…”

“Don’t worry, I’m almost done with your cake, little bug,” he says warmly.

“I want— Want it now!!” she cries. The dear creep’s eyes are fixated on the cake Moomintroll is decorating with chocolate shavings like a set of jovial, yellow moons.

“Don’t rally yourself up or your tummy will be in knots!” he laughs.

“More for us,” cries a child from the plaid table— Pudsey, a Woodie with one eye to see, and twice the volume to speak. He sits with his fellow Woodie sibling in their respective chairs, with candy-colored hats crafted from leftover paper.

“Begone with you,” Moomintroll huffs to him, good-humoredly. He looks back down to Fjarille, whose tail wagging so fiercely it might stir up a breeze. “You can sit wherever you want at the table today, dear fuzz. How exciting! Which one will you pick?”

Fjarille spins herself about like this is the most daunting of tasks, a hum of deep thought escaping when she finally points, “T-there.”

“Hey! No fair!” Fisk the pesky nibling is booted from his seat by his seatmate, Pudsey. He sniffles angrily, and Moomintroll rushes over before a fight breaks out.

“Now Fisk,” Moomintroll begins, scratching the poor thing’s head, “Wouldn’t you like to have the honor of sitting where you want on your birthday?”

“Maybe,” the other mutters darkly.

“You can sit beside Skiffle,” he gestures to the edge of the table. Fisk does, dragging his feet.

Skiffle — a grey-furred muddler blinded and starved by cruel paws — is meanwhile setting hir present on the table with the rest; unlike the others, clumsily wrapped and barely held with tape, hir package is neat and tidy with not a crease to be found in the orange foil.

“Go on and pick mine,” ze stage-whispers to the direction of hir sibling, “I spent a lot of time on it, so you should love me more than everyone else.”

“Untrue!” Posey gasps in anger, but is dissuaded when Moomintroll strokes the leaves sewn into her stark-white hair.

At last, the final child appears at the doorway: a Groke with the color of smokey purple, and her long tail dragging behind her like a skipping-rope, decorated with a bow. She looks uncertain on the seating arrangements, evident by her flickering eyes to every which way and the rubbing of her mitten-covered paws at her front.

Moomintroll gives each child a plate of triangle sandwiches, one side of the bread is marmalade and the other ham with cucumber. Each is poured lemonade and given a small wrapper of butterscotch candy for a mini dessert before Moomin takes his place at the far end of the table. The cake watches over them from the counter, as menacing as an unclaimed prize.

“Genevieve, darling, come and sit with me,” Moomintroll calls to the Groke child, patting at his lap. “Bring me a blanket for my old legs, would you?”

She nods and shuffles to the couch, seated right beside the banister, and brings over a very old quilt Moominmamma had knit before Moomintroll’s departure. It was blemished with many wildflowers from the valley, which were beginning to fade from too many washes.

“Hupsy daisy!” Moomintroll brings Genevieve up into the warmth of his fuzzy stomach, where she chitters in content and makes herself comfortable.

“Old man,” Fisk teases under his breath, but is stopped when Skiffle clips him square on the shoulders.

“Welcome to your birthday lunch!” Moomintroll chimes in delight to Fjarille. “My dear, you’re seven whole years old! Where has the time gone?”

“I ‘unno,” Fjarille answers politely. “Can we eat?”

Moomintroll continues unfazed, “I’ve been with you for a very long time, Fjarille, and what an honor that is! You know you were named after the tiger moth woolies that crawled outside your nursery’s window? Do you remember that?”

“I remember you s- _saying_ it,” she grumbles.

“You looked so much like them,” he gushes. “It was a given! Your little feelers were just fuzzy nubs on your head… You seemed to sneeze one day and out they popped!”

“Pappa, I’m...hungry.”

“I’m almost finished,” Moomintroll scolds. The children silently whine.

“In the seven years I’ve known you, darling, you’ve been the most interesting thing I’ve ever seen— and I should know, I travelled far and wide before I met you! And when we travelled together — I know you don’t remember it — you would get so much love from passing strangers. They knew you were special, too, they cooed at you and you’d swat at them!”

Fjarille looks away, embarrassed.

“I _also_ know,” he continues, “that you love your puzzles and your stars, and your tape recorder. You love water with fruit and sugar, and your nose wrinkles a full minute before you sneeze. You take a piece out of every puzzle set we have to mash them. And,” his voice reaches a subtle tone, “you love foreign radio stations. You like how it crackles, isn’t that true?”

“Maybe,” she mutters.

“Which reminds me,” Moomintroll drawls. “You may open one present before we eat, like always. But this year, may I make a suggestion?”

This makes every child curious, but especially the birthday kid whose ears twitch and look at their father oddly.

“Go on and pick the purple box,” he suggests. “The one that matches your sweater.”

Since Pudsey is closest to the present pile, he passes it down the line — throwing it over Fisk’s head who yells — and it finally reaches Fjarille’s claws that tear into it with a new rush of excitement.

Inside, the contents make her scream.

“Pappa!” she cries. “Pappa, look! Look!”

“I see it!” Moomintroll says. “Happy birthday, bug.”

“Oh—!” she wastes no time dumping the contents out onto the table, where it makes a heavy clunk and the guts of wires spill out with it.

“What is it?” Skiffle asks as the others gawk.

“It’s a radio transmitter,” Moomintroll replies. “Your uncle Snork says it can pick up channels from as far as America!”

“Oh,” Fjarille repeats, nearly in tears. She hugs the radio closer than a teddy. “Th-thank you— thank you!”

“We should go and test it!” Posey cries in delight, before frowning. “Erm, how do we do that?”

“Oh, I have one more surprise to answer that!” Moomintroll beams. “But you’ll all have to finish your lunch before I show you.”

It’s the fastest he’s ever seen them eat.

* * *

Mist thick as wool lays on the water’s skin, leaving the neighboring islands and mountains shrouded in a pale blue grey. Salt is first to hit Moomintroll’s senses, watering his eyes, and he feels the prickles of sand coat his fur as a breeze tumbles in.

It’s not the valley, not at all. Even the rocks have a different color to them, bleached by the tides, with stubborn wildflowers forcing their way through the cracks. Marram grass sways to the beach’s tunes, coupled by the small but sturdy beachhouse that Moomintroll had built, during months of high tides that washed the world a darker hue.

He _had_ to build it, there was no other option for him. With Moominpappa’s legs locking up and his fur greyed, Too-Ticky had joined him in that boat on the valley’s shore that day, packed with only a few bags and a week’s worth of canned goods, and a very young Fjarille strapped to his chest to rid her of the water’s chill. He had waved until his arm was tired, and turned away as everyone was still calling their goodbyes.

Despite how recent the house was built, the years are quick to set into the woodworks; wallpaper peels like scabs, which is covered up by upside-down pictureframes. The oily shimmer of mussels collect beneath the docks like a cavern of diamonds. Waterfowls lodge their homes of twigs and spruce needles beneath the roof eaves, and the Woodie children will collect their eggs when Moomintroll isn’t looking. 

He appreciates the days where it’s a blessing to be alive, and he’s found those to be more often than when he wallowed in the valley, after…

Well.

Moomintroll’s thoughts are aimlessly yanked from their seams as he’s tugged into each direction — the Woodie twins on his tail, Fisk on his leg, Skiffle and Genevieve grabbing his arms. And of course up ahead, waiting for no one, stands the birthday child. She holds the transistor close as she bobbles up and down, excitement itching like sparks off of her body.

“Let’s go!” the children cry in bouts, and Moomintroll laughs as he’s led uphill by very eager younglings that puppeteer him up the steep.

“I bet we’ll be able to hear the moon from up here!” Posey crows.

“The moon is just a rock, dummy,” Fisk argues. “It won’t talk.”

“Yes, but the Martians living on it could!”

They round the back of the house and amble up the rock’s lip, passing the garden built from a hollowed bog where Moomintroll flooded it with soil to grow potatoes, peas, tomatoes, blueberries, herbs, and a tobacco patch the children couldn’t touch until they were older.

The family climbs over the craggy mounts, towards the sparse pine that has made itself a home like Moomintroll had: passionate and unyielding. Their roots are veins for the island’s heart, and incredibly difficult to pull. The flock of greenery disbands down the hill as though they’re trying to run into the cottage themselves, but are just only able to reach it.

Deep puddles gather in the space between rocks, perfect for amateur fishing lessons — which Fisk haphazardly flings himself into, in order to soak the victims of his path, being both Pudsey who complains, and Genevieve whose water droplets cling to her downside turning into frost.

When they arrive in the thin barrier of the spruce, Moomintroll announces, “Here we are!” just as a collective gasp breaks the air.

It’s a satellite: small, ovalline, but wider than a whole set of dinner plates lined side-by-side. It veers its white head towards the skies, with the horn facing the direction of the mainland several miles north — as Moomintroll had calculated with a compass. It sits upon the biggest pine of the island, and its wires cascade down the needles to the stump.

Fjarille sprints forward and looks up with a galaxy of stars bright in her eyes. She turns giddily towards her father, awestruck.

“How did you—!!”

“Your uncle Snork visited in secret,” Moomintroll answers with a very sly wink. “He set it up just for you.”

Her paws flutter and her feet slap against the grass as she bounces up and down, and the children who can absorb excitement like sponges follow suit.

“So, what does it do?” Pudsey asks, as he and Skiffle had been the only ones not celebrating.

“Uncle Snork had, erm, explained it, but,” Moomintroll chuckles awkwardly. “I hadn’t been able to keep up that well. I wish I didn’t pretend that I understood.”

“S’okay!” Fjarille exclaims blithely. “We’ll— we’ll figure it out!”

“I read a book about radios once,” Posey interjects, offering nothing else.

“First we should get the antennae,” Skiffle supplies. Ze mercilessly snatches it from Genevieve’s small head mimicking Fjarille’s own pair, and ze taps hir cane on the rocks to rejoin Fjarille as she dumps her transmitter’s accessories along the grassy carpet.

Moomintroll stays back as the rest of the kids scamper forward to offer their own assistance, and they determinedly get to work by following their sibling’s knowing instructions on how to handle the radio. It’s a photograph of a minute, Moomintroll thinks, and right then a thought dampens him.

“Is Winnie by the beach again?” he asks.

A shrug resounds from the pile of kids.

“I’d think so,” he whispers under his breath, half-exasperated. “I’ll go and get them, will you be okay on your own?”

“Yes, Pappa,” they agree. Some answer with “Yes, Moomin,” which is equally acceptable.

He leaves while Fjarille is pointing to the Woodies to scamper up and connect the dish, and Moomintroll feels very fond of them all.

* * *

It’s a shame. A downright shame. The horror of this cottage, how it was built on the foundation of grief.

Grief, growing on the windowsills with the mold. Grief glued into the cinderblocks he and Too-Ticky cemented. Grief blooming with the rosemary and basil, between the tomato vines. Grief tucking the children into bed at night. Poor things, sleeping on a decade of sorrow and not even knowing it.

Fjarille knows, though; she’s always known without being told. Moomintroll catches her wandering eye, sometimes, as though she’s filling in the gaps herself. Imagining a life that was cruelly snatched from her, in muscle memory.

For Moomintroll, his imagination is too dangerous for that. Seven years is a long time to bear twin reactions to her milestones: first steps, first words, all laced in joy before the _what-if’s_ trickle in.

And poor little Winnie, the biggest ‘what-if’ without realizing it. Winnie, the mumrik who arrived on the harbor crying and half-naked with their face scraped red, their tail half-gone. Too-Ticky even looked sorry for giving them over.

See, the problem with Winnie is outside of anyone’s control. It isn’t their fault they were born into white fur and short honey-blonde hair, coated with hairpins; they’ve even got the browned sharp nose. They just happen to _be_ like her, that’s all. But that’s enough.

Moomintroll puckers his mouth when his thoughts turn awful, and when he finds Winnie in their usual spot — perched atop the pilings that speckle the shores, remnants of a fluffy tail curled around it to steady their weight — he stops to stare on.

Because of the murmuring waves he’s sure to announce his appearance so they don’t jump, swatting his ribboned tail against the long grass and crinkling shells beneath his pads.

“Hi, what are you up to?” Moomintroll asks, even if he knows.

“Lookin’ for ships,” Winnie answers without looking over. “I’m on afternoon watch.”

“It’s not nice to go on afternoon watch on a birthday.”

“I already made Fjarille somethin’.”

“Oh?” Moomintroll creeps forward, watching for pointed sea-glass. “I didn’t see anything at the table.”

“Because I hid it! It’s a secret.”

“Are you sure you hadn’t just forgotten?”

“Yes!” Winnie finally brings their eye away from their treasured spyglass to cast over a very defensive glare. “It’s in the chest beneath my bed but you’re not gonna get it because it isn’t ready yet!”

“Then why don’t you finish it?”

“Because I’m on _afternoon watch,_ ” Winnie repeats with a groan. “At 1600 sharp I’ll finish it. I’m watching a ship yonder right now.”

This piques his interest, perking his ears skyward. “A ship?”

“A dinghy, more like,” they say, then return to where they’d been looking to report, “Some sort of wooden one, a clinker. And it’s got dark green paint on it, scraped up on the edges, it’s quite ugly.”

“Is it headed this way?” Moomintroll asks.

“Yessir, headed straight for the island.”

Odd. Moomintroll can’t recall any telegrams coming in from family, Moominmamma is practically glued to the machine waiting for her nightly messages so she’d be bound to have told him if Moominpappa was braving the sea for a visit. She’d already sent her birthday wishes that morning because she was very busy with her painting.

Was it Snorkmaiden, then? No, no, she was abroad in...Poland, was it? Yes, that seemed right, she was off on a venture only known to her, and she was so intent to keep it that way until she returned, so listeners would cling to every word when she got back.

“Hum,” Moomintroll sighs aloud. “Maybe someone lost their way.”

“Lost at sea,” Winnie muses. “What a way to die.”

“Well, they certainly won’t be dying on Fjarille’s birthday,” Moomintroll says firmly, hardset as he picks his way into the sandy moor. Burrs cling onto his apron and he picks them off. “It would be quite rude.”

“Upside down and thrust into the mighty jaws of Davy Jones’s locker!” Winnie stands with nimble feet atop their post to cry out into the waves, proudly. “Food for Boobles! Death to scavengers!”

“Yes,” Moomintroll murmurs; there isn’t much else he can say at that.

 _The wind will be bad tonight,_ he’s thinking instead, in a private corner of his mind. _It won’t be good for paper lamps. Maybe candles, with her flowers tied to them._

Out loud he says, “And how is Bluebella’s island?”

“Shore-side, captain.”

“That’s good. Is there anything else to report, firstmate?”

“I glued saltines to the hurricane lamp,” Winnie answers.

“Why…?”

“So the seagulls can fly into it,” they say a bit too briskly.

“Right,” Moomintroll mutters. He amends the subject by asking, “Do you have an estimate on when the visitor will be here?”

“Mm,” Winnie looks out again. “1700 time, approximate.”

“Right on time for dinner!” Moomintroll says. “I’ll make another plate, and are you hungry for your lunch yet honeysop?”

“Nah, I wanna watch the boat.”

“Alright, but I expect your present to be on the table with the others by the time the sailor arrives.”

Winnie isn’t listening — they’ve thrown both their heart and their ears into the eager mouth of the sea, which laps it up until the only thing that’s ever mattered in the world is the speck of a boat inching their way.

* * *

In the house, Moomintroll is alone with a teenage ticky girl, who had come out of her room when all the others had left. She plays the grand piano that had washed onto the island long before Moomintroll had claimed it; it was Too-Ticky’s magic paws which had polished it back up to semi-former glory, and furthermore it was the eldest daughter’s paws which force-fed it back to life with knowing fingers.

Madge sits with her back to Moomintroll’s— he sees her sleeves have been rolled up and her coon-striped scarf thrown backwards so its tail didn’t interfere with her playing. Her dark shoulder-length hair curtains her face, but Moomintroll imagines it: stony, limited to the set of keys that bend to only her, and a late satisfaction that will shine in her black eyes like a pearl found in nightly waters.

Moomintroll washes his paws many times with a damp cloth, waiting for her song to reach its end. When the clock above her strikes two, she lifts her fingers from the keys with no grand crescendo, leaving the room taut and incomplete.

“Can you go and gather two buckets of saltwater?” Moomintroll asks her at last. “I’ll teach you how to use the stove when you come back.”

Madge doesn’t turn around, but she nods.

Moomintroll thanks the Sink-Dweller for fetching him the cleaner, and he occupies himself with crackled swing tunes from a radio Fjarille had abandoned due to its age. His paws tread over every possible surface and he dusts with the manic vigor of a fillyjonk, blockading any moment of stillness in the cozy house.

Madge returns with windblown hair and tin pails brimming with water, and Moomintroll fulfills his promise of showing her how to operate the oil stove. 

The afternoon passes much easier after that, and the room smells of a gale as the salt collects at the bottom of the pot. 

His final request for Madge is for her to organize the cutlery, so when the children return for their 3:00 cartoons they won’t have to half-ass their chores to watch them in time.

“We’ve got enough chairs for the guest, don’t we?” she asks once she’s nearly done; she gestures about to the long table

“No,” Moomintroll argues fiercely. “You know we leave that chair empty.”

Madge complies, although reluctant, and gets a spare seat from the closet.

“I supposed that I was _adopted,_ not hired as a maid,” Madge mutters under her breath, but she does get to work on adjusting the tableware to squeeze in another space.

“Oh dear me, is that what you thought?” Moomintroll teases over the shoulder.

“Hardy-har har.”

A terrible moment passes in Moomin’s head.

“I didn’t mean that, you know—”

“I know, Moominpappa,” Madge says, in a knowing fashion that makes her smile grow a bit sad.

He sighs, returning to his line of work at the clouded sky turns darker right outside his window. He scrubs the faucet too many times.

The saltwater is now a mere inch deep when the kids return, ruffled from adventure and the cold. The children that wear shoes left them right on the rack, depositing their coats on the tree that Too-Ticky had built around and throwing them into the branches so the collars snag.

“What’s for dinner!!” Fisk calls for the rest of them as they go into the sitting-room.

“Falukorv with peas,” Moomintroll calls back, throwing the dish-towel into his apron pocket, handstitched. “Did you finish setting up your radio?”

“Not yet,” Posey sighs dejectedly. Luckily, the prized birthday child in question appears undeterred, gaze sparkling as though she’s uncovered all of earth’s golden treasures. She waddles over to her father in expectation, and he of course provides her with something to keep her paws in motion.

“Would you like to help me cut some onion?” he asks her, sliding a cutting board her way. The Sink-Dweller pops out to offer a stepping-stool in turn.

Fjarille can’t nod fast enough — only grown-ups can use knives!

“Breathe through your mouth,” her father reminds her, grabbing the sausages from their rack to peel the skin.

They do their work quietly, in a soft rhythm only first-born and father know; the air feels light, for the first time, in Moomintroll’s chest.

“Can I… Can I— boil the peas?” Fjarille eventually asks.

“Sure,” says Madge, walking over, right as Moomin says, “No.”

“Okay!” As luck would have it, Fjarille eagerly falls into the awaiting arms of Madge who pulls her up to show her the dial settings.

“Oh for heaven’s sake,” Moomintroll snaps. “I just said no!”

“It’s their birthday,” Madge retorts on cue; the twinkle in her gold eyes shows how pleased she is with herself, and Moomintroll just beds his tongue in his mouth.

The three prepare the food as tinned cartoon noises emanate from the room over; Madge eventually wanders over to join her siblings on the couch, while Fjarille stirs the softened peas. Her gaze becomes darker and darker, with the sky outside.

“Pappa,” she says.

“Fjarille?”

“You… Do you...think he’s coming?” Her eyes are cast out to the darkening sea, stretching out to the sliver of the orange horizon. Her volume is low.

Moomintroll restrains a sigh, and opts to be patient. She hasn’t learned how to let go yet; he’s trying very hard to teach her.

He guides her black paw away from the spoon. “Go and watch some TV, little dear. I’ll finish up dinner.”

She looks over, saddened.

A knife stuck between his ribs twists and turns. It’s difficult to feign hope, _especially_ for them. “Maybe next year?”

Fjarille finally surrenders with a slump; Moomintroll aches for her. “Maybe…”

“You’ve had a very good birthday!” he tries. “It’s a waste to think of what you don’t have! Remember your cake tonight? And presents?”

“Can...I go back to the sat-satellite?” Fjarille asks.

“Tomorrow you can,” Moomintroll says. “I don’t want you out past dark.”

“Are we doing the candles?”

Another wound, gently pried into. “Yes, dear. Of course. Go watch TV.”

She gives a very lowly grunt of surrender, which finally tickles the end of Moomintroll’s lips. At last she hops off her stool and leaves Moomin to strain the peas in the sink.

The guest will be here shortly, he remembers. He ought to go and prepare the jetty.

* * *

Night comes strangely at sea, as anyone who’s wandered into that world might tell you. Heaven and earth appear to flip upside-down, and it’s as black as treading underwater with silver shorelines, the last embers of daylight diving to the seafloor before petering out on the scales of mermaids and fish.

Moomintroll picks himself down the steps of the front door with a lantern dangling from his paws. The path curved downward is bumpy, lined with stone and crushed shell as the grass whips his side, as though guiding him along. He approaches the dip in the island, where Too-Ticky carved a once-marvelous jetty that’s been humbled by storm nights, yet it still stands with his name etched into the tall post he hangs his lamp onto.

Winnie has already beaten him to the docks, and their feet are anxiously marching on the wood to make a hollow thump against the wood. Against the abyss of the night they look misplaced, as the lantern only illuminates their pale figure but the water hungrily absorbs its light.

“It’s an old jetty,” Moomintroll reminds them. “Don’t stomp or you’ll fall in.”

“Bugger to that!” Winnie exclaims. “I want it to be Too-Ticky!”

“She’s already made her rounds,” Moomintroll tells them gently, but their excitement is contagious, and he too smiles as he organizes the rope.

Winnie ignores him. “I hope she brings another kid,” they say. “A mumrik. Like me!”

He chuckles. “Will they sleep in the tall grass too, or are you just special enough to not have your own bed?”

“I’ll make ‘em sleep with me,” Winnie says.

“I believe you,” Moomintroll nods. “Go and ready the docks to bring in the boat, please.”

Winnie straightens up immediately. “Which side, captain!”

“Looks like they’re coming in starboard.”

The little mumrik nods and, very determined to prove themself useful, buries their head into the dock supplies tucked right along the edges.

Moomintroll’s nose is tickled with the playful spray of the waves as he bends down to appropriately knot the ropes through the ringbolt. “Can you see our guest?” he asks.

“Yessir, he’s got a pinecone for a head!”

 _Hm,_ he thinks, amused. “A pinecone?”

Winnie breaks out their spyglass snug at the hip to further inspect the approaching dinghy. “Long hair, too. Kinda dark, maybe a spot of red on ‘im.”

A foreign jolt in Moomintroll seizes him up; a thought flickers on the surface of him, like leaves struggling to dive into water.

“Is...that so?” He feels very odd, and sounds odd.

“Yeah,” Winnie says, halfway off the dock as they crane their neck. “Oh, his eyes glow too! Like me!”

“I see.”

“Fiddlin’ with something in his paws— oh, a block of wood! Dunno what he’s making, but I don’t think he does either!”

“Why would you say that, dear?”

“‘Cause he’s looking right at us!”

Moomintroll’s spine snaps right up.

Something in him — vast and terrible — knows before his head does. He feels an immense surge of something he doesn’t wish to think, because it locks up his heartbeat and forms a rock in his stomach.

“Land Ho!” Winnie cries to the visitor, in place of Moomin who is glued to his reflection below the deck. It stares back, just as helpless and numb as him.

It couldn’t. It _won’t_ be, because it never _has_ been before.

And yet, as he boat rocks against the jetty with a thump that echoes in Moomintroll, he’s collecting the breath to turn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to clear up any confusion fjarille's sex is mymble-based (one gender.....them Frogs...) so she/they works interchangeably. Demigirl Rights!!!!!!!
> 
> smallest of sidenotes: I don’t have anything like a tumblr so if you make something for this fic or for anything else I’ve written just lmk in the comments bc I’d love to see it!!!! as would everyone else, y’all are so so talented !


	2. the candles

_In the valley, love was easier. No matter the forms it took, it drifted into the hearts like warm summer wind, no strings attached but the heartstrings being happily tugged along for the journey._

_Moomintroll remembers that...maybe not fondly, what with everything. Moreso remembering the clean break of a bone: that sharpness._

_The impact of his feet on those shores, the run and embrace. The ‘finally’s. The kisses that followed quicker than gunshots, and it was all a bit too sudden but he didn’t care. They didn’t care._

_When longing became loving, it was the simultaneous feeling of flying on Hobgoblin’s pink clouds and jumping headfirst off a cliff into the ocean._

_They were young, and a little naive despite thinking they weren’t, thinking they’ve seen it all._

_So, it was very easy to get lost in the blinding excitement, that butterfly flutter, and...of course, more brazen matters. The relearning of a friend’s body, how they’ll shift when a different light is held up to them. That was an interest that grew in the thick of his abdomen, and he craved it because it was so private and strange!_

_And who was to listen, if told to stop?_

_The valley was stamped proudly with their new love: wherever they could freely announce it, they did._

_A press of wet grass. An empty kitchen. Unmarked glades. Flower fields where petals kissed the backs of their knees. Dim candlelight, secret late-night visits, deep cavern pools, sandy moors, bedsheets of lavender and milk soap._

_Heartbeat on heartbeat. Teeth against teeth. To be taken whole into someone else’s body and spit back out in a different shape. That’s what it was. And it was exciting, that prospect of being devoured._

_They were dancing with this love, curtsying with the fascination of it all; they savored life in the way that ghosts might — nothing mattered and everything did. The world tasted sweeter when Moomintroll could taste it under his beloved’s tongue, his collarbone, his thighs._

_Among all else, they could afford to be stupid with that love._

_Very stupid, indeed._

* * *

Moomintroll can only think of two very prominent, bright things in his mind:

_He can’t. He shouldn’t._

The mantra of those thoughts rise up to his eyelids, and the horrible ache spreads through his head like ink in water.

No, he shouldn’t be here. There were no breadcrumbs for him to follow, no one in Moominvalley has seen him since… 

—He _shouldn’t be here,_ because he was never here before, and made no effort to _be_ here before, when it might have made a difference and his name didn’t taste so awful.

He _can’t_ be here because he’s forbidden to be, and if Moomintroll had his wits about himself he would’ve put up a very specific sign on his docks to say so.

(Though he would’ve torn it down. That makes him angrier to consider.)

Somewhere Winnie’s voice pops in: “Ahoy, mister! Y’got some mighty bad scars, did’ja get it from a fight on the seas?”

...He does have scars, Moomintroll realizes. Not just his sunburnt-esque acne scars (often mistaken for freckles, which they are not because acne isn’t copper and also the freckles collect right atop his cheekbones like they’d fallen from his lashes), but _actual_ scars. The pinkish, crosshatched types that heroes will bravely adorn their faces with, that Snorkmaiden always ogled at. But these look different, because whatever scarred him had no taste in fashion placement and swiped haphazardly over the upper side of his right eye, clean-cut over red brows.

Alright, so. That’s new.

There’s so much about him which is new. The yellow of his pupils which have poured into his gaze for good, encircled with his father’s raccoon-like sockets and a starkly-black nose. It’s got a bump on the ridge now. He must’ve broken it.

There’s gold ivy trimmed along the hem of his coat, dull and littered with patches of lichen. He’s got a red scarf to replace his yellowed one, draped unceremoniously over his shoulders to imitate a shawl.

—And Winnie was right, his hair _is_ long. Longer than it was before, with whiskers of white in it. A braid adorns his left cheek.

He looks...pained. And beaten. And older.

In a different story, perhaps this would have been Moomintroll’s Snufkin. Maybe his appearance wouldn’t startle him so badly, maybe he’d be relieved to see this man walking up the Moominvalley bridge with a fresh tune and new tales.

Maybe he would feel something else constricting his lungs, right now. Other than anger.

The visitor speaks first.

“I’m...very sorry for being late,” Snufkin says. His stare doesn’t derail, as they weigh each other out. “It wasn’t the easiest sailing trip I’ve been on. Went to the wrong island, actually. Twice.”

Moomintroll doesn’t move.

“It’s still their birthday, isn’t it?” he hedges at some length. “I can’t tell if it’s midnight yet, and I...I’ve brought them a gift, if that’s—”

“You shouldn’t be here.”

His voice feels choppy and thick. He doesn’t know how he got it out from his throat in the first place, but it feels so visceral in him, only outmatched by the quick shame which roils at the base of his stomach.

“Moomin,” Snufkin tries, in a tone that used to work.

“You—” Moomintroll shakes his head, feeling tremors in his paws. “You won’t do this to them. You _can’t._ ”

He watches the tubes of Snufkin’s neck show.

“I would have written a letter—” he tries.

“I would have thrown it out.”

“Moomintroll—”

There’s a snarl riding up his muzzle. “Who do you— think you are, coming here—”

“I understand if you’re upset, I know it’s been...a good while, since I’ve been home—”

“This is _not_ your home.”

Winnie’s cry interrupts. “Captain, look at me!”

Moomintroll does, blinking fast to see Winnie standing on the bow of Snufkin’s boat. They hold a facsimile pose of all the pirates in their fictional novels: one leg up, one paw at the hip, the other paw pointed outward.

“Winnie, get down from there,” Moomintroll warns tiredly.

“Aww,” they whine, “But this is my first time on a real pirate ship!”

“That’s _not_ a pirate ship, that’s just a boring old dinghy.”

“Yeah, being rowed by a _pirate!_ ” Winnie argues. “Look at his scars!”

“Winnie.”

Hearing the cold shift in his voice, Winnie slumps over and pouts before returning to the jetty, glaring down in defeat.

And Snufkin...

Well, Moomintroll can’t say he pities him, but he does sympathize when he sees how Snufkin tenses his muscles up when he properly eyes Winnie, sizing them up and how they...look. Which Moomintroll admittedly still stumbles over.

It’s fair that his eyes go all round and even in the lamplight the color of his face seems to change, as his gaze pierces severely into Winnie, who’s skipping about in a devil-may-care attitude.

“I suppose,” Moomintroll fishes, “you’ll be staying overnight.”

Snufkin resurfaces, his eyes still churning and dark but he takes a breath, loosening his structure. “I suppose I don’t have a choice.”

“You always have a choice,” he replies mildly. “But it’s late, and Grokes travel along these waters. If you’ve got a lamp—”

He connects the dots. “I see,” he nods. Folds a lip in. “That’d be smart, then. Thank you.”

Winnie pops back in to ogle their guest some more. “I like your hat,” they beam. “Pappa’s gonna get me a sou’wester for my birthday.”

“And how do you know that?” Moomintroll asks them.

They shrug. “Just do.”

Snufkin, subtle-but-unsubtly, sidesteps away from them, giving a cough.

“Right,” Moomintroll grumbles. There’s pins and needles in his chest, and they’re getting harder to ignore. But, if he breaks down sobbing or something of the sort — which he very much feels like doing — then this air of formidability he’s worked so hard to achieve will be shattered, and around Snufkin he can’t afford that.

“Give me a moment to grab my things,” Snufkin requests.

Moomintroll feels that age-old urge to intervene, to say _no let me, don’t strain yourself,_ because the last instance he saw Snufkin he remembers that same body in the works for death, how he refused the medicine offered and the sleepless nights that came from hovering over him and begging like his life was _his_ responsibility, _oh you poor, poor little thing you need to be eating, let me do it all for you, don’t lift a paw until you’re better—_

He doesn’t lift a mere finger to assist, and Snufkin is able to know that much, because there’s not even a pause of invitation before he’s wobbling back into the boat and piling his luggage together, slinging it onto his back.

Winnie is quick to rejoin Moomintroll’s side, stage-whispering, “You sure he isn’t a pirate?”

“Trust me, I’m very sure,” Moomintroll says.

“Phooey,” they frown. “Then what is he if not a pirate?”

Ooh, there’s so many answers for that one, but not all of them he’d like to say in front of his small eight year-old child. “He’s someone I’ve known for a very long time,” he decides. “Back from the valley, even.”

“Wow,” Winnie says, still impressed. “He smells like tobacco.”

“I imagine so.”

Before he’s pressed further on Snufkin’s origins, said visitor returns to the pier shrugging his pack comfortably on his sharp shoulders. With a straightened spine, he gestures to the small path just behind Moomintroll. “Shall we…?”

Moomintroll turns on his heel up the sandy trail, and the onslaught of footsteps follow his lead.

He snatches the lamp from its post and lowers it to where he can see where his feet land — sometimes small crabs or burrs will sting at his soft pads if he isn’t careful, and there’s the occasional baby hattifattener which shuffles through very late at night.

From behind him, the crunch of sand beneath heels is matched only by Winnie’s excited outburst: “You have pockets! Can I look in them?”

Snufkin appears to think about this for a second. “You can,” he answers.

As the slope inches upwards to the cottage deck, Moomintroll pricks his ears back a little so he can listen, amusedly, to the frantic shuffling of Winnie pawing through the deep pockets of his gown.

“A spinning top!” Winnie cries. They quickly return to Moomintroll to hold out their discovery, jumping excitedly. “Look, look! Can I keep it?”

“Ask Snufkin,” Moomintroll says.

Winnie returns to Snufkin, and Moomintroll can hear the second where they pull their most pitiful of puppy-dog eyes onto him. He also hears the sigh of defeat soon after.

“I concede,” Snufkin says.

“Yess!” they cheer, and Moomintroll smiles at thinking of them now studying the toy very intently.

They reach the staircase of the dock, which Moomintroll takes very slow steps up, feeling something heavy in him being tossed around like a loaded water-basin.

He’s letting Snufkin into his home. Into four walls that weren’t meant to hold him, in a safe cottage that he built with the intent to leave that part of him back in the valley. It’s all rushing back to him, flipping about in his head: sleepless nights, starchy medicine, unread letters, a shrinking stomach. Standing too close to the precipice of a great rock.

He opens the door.

Madge is scraping away the bottoms of the saltwater pot with a spoon, pouring it into a bowl. “You’re right on time,” she calls across the way, “I was thinking about adding this to the fal—”

She turns just in time to stop and stare on.

Moomintroll hears the two trickling in right behind him, with one pair staying close to the open doorway blasting ocean wind, the other happily trotting up to the set table.

“Madge, this is our visitor,” Moomintroll coughs to rid the lull in the room. He steps aside for a good gander at Snufkin, stiff as a board. “This is Snufkin, he’s...he’s visiting for Fjarille’s birthday, that’s nice! Isn’t that nice?”

Madge narrows her eyes a bit, puzzling the circumstance out. “Okay,” she decides. “Should I go get them?”

“I’ll do it!” Winnie announces, springing up from where they’re organizing a fork. Before Moomintroll can decline their offer, Winnie cups their paws around their mouth and shouts, “HEY FJARILLE!! You have a visitor!”

Immediately the stampede of small feet galloping from the sitting-room to the kitchen shakes the house like thunder; a swarm of eyes hones onto Moomintroll and the stranger behind him.

It’s not that there aren’t many guests to Moominhouse — when meals come round Moomintroll always rings the outdoor bell to announce that food is hot and ready for those who want it. They’ve seen many creatures on the dock’s welcome mat, from many different walks of life: sailors, Grokes, neighboring island ghosts, even half-blood mermaids who walk on land by day and swim by night.

This stranger, though, looks very uncomfortable to be in this house. He looks dragged in against his will, holding a forearm and casting a deep shadow from his hat over his face, like a child being brought up to a school chalkboard and demanded to do...whatever schools ask of their students, of which no one in Moominhouse knows.

The only vocals, for a time, are the canned noises of laughter emitting from the television in the other room.

Moomintroll clears his throat. He silently gestures for the children to do their practiced routine, twirling a finger, and they all stand straight in a line.

Moomin gets behind them. “Snufkin,” — it’s still so weird to say his name, it’s been locked up in him for so long — “these are...my children. Here’s Madge” (furrowed brows) “Skiffle” (an aimless wave) “Genevieve” (disinterest) “Fisk” (sticks his tongue out) “the twins, Pudsey and Posey,” (excited smiles)

“And…well, you’ve already met Winnie. And Fjarille.”

_And Fjarille._ Poor Fjarille.

She’s seen Snufkin in stored photographs, or caught glimpses of him when someone runs their tongue a bit too long and she eavesdrops. She knows who he is, because one always knows, there’s that tug in them, like a string wrapped around whatever organ the soul may be, pulling them into realization sooner than their brains can.

Moomintroll wishes more than anything that wasn't the case; the most he can do is rub the fluffy space between her antennae as she takes great interest in the star-shapes on her sweater.

Snufkin looks for a long while at each child, giving a sort of dumbfounded look that mirrors one of Little My’s comments about how ‘one just wasn’t enough’ — although she put it more cheekily than that, and often elaborated with jabs and chortles. Snufkin just stares on.

“Mother has some competition,” he declares at last.

Moomintroll wishes he didn’t chuckle at that.

Snufkin looks surprised at his reaction, then smiles. Which dissipates on arrival when he looks to the spot he’d been avoiding.

Fjarille doesn’t peer up from her sweater-picking, till the silence bugs her as well and her antennae twitch to the direction of the visitor. She squeaks a bit when they lock eyes.

They both just stare, in a vehement quiet that makes Moomintroll prickle and so desperately hoping the oven timer will go off.

At last Snufkin walks towards her, and the other children disband to encircle the two, having caught on that something is amiss and wanting to watch.

He kneels down, she steps back into Moomintroll’s apron.

“Hello, Fjarille,” he says. “I hear that it’s your birthday today.”

She doesn’t even dare blink.

“How exciting,” he goes on, genial if not stilted. “Y’know, I’ve never really had a birthday before? But I have had celebrations, and isn’t it nice to have a whole day dedicated to when the world made room for you? I hope you’ve been spending it well.”

The kids around them peek back and forth and back and forth, assessing why there’s such a terrible awkwardness submerging the room when the stranger appears so nice.

Moomintroll pities his child so terribly. He himself is frozen, and can only stroke her hair in an absent comfort.

Fjarille finally looks up. “A— are you...r-really my— my papa?”

“I really am,” Snufkin answers, sounding warm. He reaches out. “You’ve grown a lot, I hope you’ve been eating well—“

She scoots out of his touch with a discontented noise Moomintroll feels spike up his ribs. He winces to see her retreat behind his back.

Seven years. That’s a very long time to not know someone you should.

Snufkin, for all his snags, knows when he needs to retract, so he does. He stands back up and fiddles with his backpack, clipping it off to where it thuds on the floor.

“I brought you something,” he says to where Fjarille is hidden. “Would you like to see it?”

Moomintroll feels her baby claws dig into flesh right above the tailbone, flexing with uncertainty.

“Ok-kay,” she mumbles.

“I heard that you love stars,” Snufkin murmurs. “You know, I travelled to a salt flat some time ago, it was like heaven and earth perfectly merged. You could walk on the stars! It was fascinating, of course I thought of you.”

Snufkin rids his babbling to pull out a...what is that? It’s some sort of rusted-up contraption, weathered from many journeys, and shaped very poorly. It looks like it used to be a circle. Moomintroll scowls at the holes cut from the metal — it will leave Fjarille’s paws bloody if she dares hold it wrong.

“Here we are,” Snufkin says, having the audacity to hold out this _‘gift’_ to where Fjarille can reach for it. “Happy birthday, dearest.”

Fjarille hesitates, then takes it by the handle to examine with a curious face. Moomintroll can’t see her eyes from the angle, but notices her nose creases up as though she’s confused.

The peanut gallery, who up until now has been suspiciously silent, decides to chip in.

“What is it??” Fisk hurries over. “Looks weird.”

“Why’s it got holes?” Pudsey speaks up, tapering his good eye.

“I think it’s cheese,” his sister supplies.

“Cheese isn’t rusty! Or big!”

“It could be a _slice_ of cheese,” Posey argues. “Martian cheese.”

“Oh, bugger that. Hand it to me,” Skiffle huffs from where ze leans against hir cane, extending hir paw. “ _I’ll_ tell you what it is.”

Fjarille does, seeming happy to escape the uncomfortable sandwich between her fathers.

“Hm.” Skiffle reaches down, then threads hir fingers into every nook and cranny of the thing, even when Moomintroll cringes on the sharp ends ze encounters. But he can’t lie about being curious himself.

Finally: “Mister,” Skiffle calls in Snufkin’s direction, “is this fixing to be a sort of lamp cover?”

“Yes!” Snufkin breathes, seeming relieved. He takes the contraption back, explaining, “Although it works well with any sort of light. Candles, for one — the flame won’t melt it, see, it’s metallic.”

“Ahh,” the children say, wonderstruck. Even Fjarille appears interested, if not still reproachful.

Moomintroll just sniffs. “Yeah, but the metal will just get hot, won’t it?”

“Just a touch,” Snufkin admits. “So I used sun-oil, you can borrow the last of my bottle…”

Something in Moomintroll’s expression makes Snufkin’s voice peter out.

Then Fjarille tugs on his gold-laced gown.

“Papa,” she tries, “may we...see?”

“Of course, it’s your birthday after all.” 

True to type, Snufkin requests a safe light source he can place on the woodfloors, and Moomintroll finds it very humorous and ironic that the Woodies are the ones who trample over themselves to fulfill Snufkin’s wishes. He knows very well that the twins are not from the same line of woods as the twenty-four creeps Snufkin took in one summer, but he always seems to ease his way into feral orphan hearts.

The rest speculate amongst themselves on what this escapade is fixing to become, and in the meantime Moomintroll bends down a bit to Fjarille, cracking his knees. “Are you okay, moth?”

He keeps his voice low to blend into the ongoing banters; Fjarille’s snout wrinkles again, as though holding in a sneeze. Her bangs cover her eyes.

“He...hmmmm. S-weird,” she determines quietly. “A l-little weird.”

“Only a little,” Moomintroll points out, but the assurance falls flat.

“Hm, y-yeah,” Fjarille responds. That’s all he can glean from her as the Woodies come back downstairs, fighting over who should be the one to hold the thick wax candle.

Snufkin takes it with thanks, patting each mussied mop of hair to both’s delight, and fiddles with a lighter he keeps snug in his pocket.

Fjarille steps forward, as do the other children, suddenly hushed as the candle glows.

Snufkin retrieves the lamp-cover and asks, “Are you ready?”

The children nod.

Then, he covers the light.

Everyone — even Moomintroll — holds their breath as a bevy of stars spangle the walls; the miniature sun on the floor bleeds out of Snufkin’s poorly-cut galaxy, collecting on the adorning faces of the children like yellow patchwork.

Fjarille, sweetest and most wonderful of beasts, looks awestruck, as though the entire world had been handed to her on a silver tray. Her hair is swept off of her eyes as she cranes her neck to stare above at the marvels of the ceiling, open-mouthed.

Moomintroll watches her with great love, and then at Snufkin, who seems to be more relaxed and releasing a long exhale.

As the smallest creeps attempt to capture the stars on their noses, or stomping at the ones on the floor, Fjarille whispers, “Wow.”

Moomintroll must admit, it’s a fine present indeed.

Snufkin ends the show by gripping the handle and lifting the room back to its normal lighting, which now seems blinding and causes many a protest. He blows out the candle, as to not damage the wood, and Moomintroll scrubs his eyes with a wince.

“Here, little beast,” Snufkin murmurs to Fjarille, handing the gift back to her. “Now you can carry the stars with you wherever you want.”

“Wow…” she says again.

“I want one!” Fisk declares. “Mister ‘nufkin, can you make me one too?”

“Me too!” Posey cries. Genevieve nods.

Snufkin tilts his head, as though in thought. “Well—”

Fjarille tucks the warm present close and snaps it away from her sibling’s grubby paws. “Go away, y-you’re all such a-- such a bother! This is MY present! Sh-shoo!”

Moomintroll hears the beginnings of a chuckle. He flicks his ears to where Snufkin muffles the noise with a paw, eyes gleaming.

It’s the ugliest affection Moomin’s ever felt.

By some grace granted from the Protectors-of-Small-Beasts, the oven timer happily chimes. Madge immediately volunteers to get the tray out of the oven.

“Wow, I’m starved!” Moomintroll cries at once, clapping his paws together for good measure. “Supper sure sounds good right now, doesn’t it?”

He gets surprised, if not receptive, responses at that. Attention immediately wanes off Fjarille’s cover to the table, where they slap against Moomintroll’s knees like a horde of hattifatteners scrambling past him.

“Wash your paws in the—! Ah, forget it,” Moomintroll grumbles.

He looks to Snufkin and Fjarille, remaining.

“Would you…?”

Fjarille walks past them both with her head down, in haste.

“Right,” Moomintroll sighs.

“Would you like any help?” Snufkin ventures.

“You’ve done enough, just sit and wait for your dish.”

Snufkin still hesitates before he’s willing to fork over the responsibility with a tight-lipped nod.

* * *

With Madge’s assistance (and Winnie, and the Woodies, just so the responsibility is evenly-split), dinner is served with the ring of falukorv as the main centerpiece of the table. Two pots’ worth of peas pool in the middle not unlike the bogs embedded into the island, and Madge takes great pleasure in sprinkling some sea-salt over the meat.

Moomintroll passes around some leftover mashed potatoes to balance tonight’s menu with the right amount of nutrition. Then, with Genevieve’s paws being the perfect temperature he holds her up while she pours lemon juice from an ice-cold pitcher into each glass.

Only a handful of the children partake in religious affairs, so after each respective prayer is done Moomintroll gets to work in helping each plate be filled accordingly with meat and veggies.

It’s nearly sacrilege how fulfilling moomin food is, like there’s a sprinkle of magic in each bite. The food is rich and savory, and extremely satisfying in a way that makes one’s heart feel mended. Unlike the more rigid communities of critter (see: fillyjonk villages), who have a sort of ‘passing of the plates’ ritual with humongous meals, moomins always seem to have instinct on what portion every house-member needs, so there’s hardly anything more than crumbs left over. And even then, those are often licked clean.

Although the food is as tasty as ever, especially on a birthday, the table is stiffly quiet save for the clicking of utensils.

There’s no speculation as to why — while food always makes tongues looser and spirits high, Snufkin has only taken a few morsels off his dish, which many find very odd.

Moomintroll’s incoming laments on that matter are broken with a horrified gasp:

“Pappa!” Winnie cries out. “Fisk is trying to eat the guest’s peas!”

“Am not!” says Fisk, who is very clearly trying to steal Snufkin’s peas.

“Fisk, don’t eat Snufkin’s peas,” Moomintroll scolds.

“It’s quite alright,” Snufkin says, a bit lamely. “I’m not...terribly hungry for peas.”

“See! So I can have his peas, right?” Fisk tries.

“It’s not nice to steal a person’s peas, dear, especially not a guest.”

_My peas?_ Genevieve suggests from across the table, peevish.

Fisk just scowls. “Your peas are always frozen!”

“Genevieve likes frozen peas,” Moomintroll says.

“Well I don’t want her frozen peas!”

“S-stop saying PEAS!!” Fjarille cries at once, slamming the end of her fork on the table so everyone jumps. Her glare is bright from beneath her hair. “It’s MY birthday and— and _I_ get to decide wh-what words we can’t say!!”

It’s quiet for a few blissful seconds.

“Pease porridge hot,” Fisk teases.

“Pappa, I’m gonna slap Fisk,” Winnie groans.

“Thank you, darling.”

“Hey!” Fisk protests as Winnie fulfills their promise.

Only a tinge lighter does the room get, and even then it feels very off-balance. Children might be small, but they have a sort of gut sense that’s often correct, when it comes to detecting anomalies between adults.

Being: Moominpappa and this Snufkin fellow are trying very hard to avoid each other right now.

Madge, being the oldest and therefore feeling somewhat responsible, coughs over her juice to garner attention. “So, mister Snufkin,” she drawls. “I...assume you travel?”

It’s as though she’s set off a bomb, because this puts the kids into a questionnaire frenzy.

“Where have you been?” Posey asks (“I’ve wondered that as well,” Moomintroll says quite bitterly, but only in his head). “Have you been in volcanos?”

“You’re half-mymble,” Fisk notes, as an aquatic creature himself. “Do you go underwater?”

“Have you met pirates??” Winnie asserts.

“Or dinosaurs?”

“Or storm-spirits!”

Snufkin wipes his mouth and doesn’t look up. “Yes, no, only for tea, they don’t exist, yes.”

Children are easily impressed with his presence, Moomintroll is reminded, as all but Fjarille stare on, hungry for more tales.

Snufkin catches wind of their eyes glued to him, so he sets his spoonful of mash down to say, “You know, right before I came here I was travelling through a large faerie forest?”

They all lean forward to their elbows for more.

“What was it like?” Skiffle asks.

“Well, the fairies were polite enough to let me pass through,” Snufkin begins, swallowing his fill. “And the plants were very tall! The mushrooms went right over my head,” to elaborate he shoots his arm right up to the tip of his hat, mimicking the height, “but I’d almost got trapped in a fae ring, it was very hard to tell what mushrooms made a ring and what was just a normal spot of them. The trick was to listen for giggling when you got closer —not to say they didn’t nab my socks, they’re clever enough to trick you like that.”

“Why was everything so big?” Madge asks in wonder.

“Some parts of the earth still believe there’s humans around to enjoy it,” Snufkin explains. “So if you wander enough you’re sure to get lost in things that are too big for the rest of us.”

“Sounds odd,” Pudsey surmises rather quickly. “I don’t like things that are bigger than me.”

“Everything is bigger than you,” Skiffle teases through a mouthful.

Meanwhile, Snufkin gives a lighthearted shrug of one shoulder. “It wasn't odd for those who lived in it,” he says. “Normal for the spider and all that. I don’t see how humans found use for skyscraper trees, but they aren’t around to put their two cents on it.”

The eldest children nod sagely at that, while the youngests pretend to be caught up in his drabble.

Snufkin looks to Moomintroll rather abruptly.

“Obviously, giant mushroom woods don’t have many mailboxes around,” he goes on, a touch remorseful. “So you can understand how I—”

“Snufkin,” Moomintroll warns coldly.

The other hangs open-mouthed before clipping it shut again, switching his attention back to his half-finished meal.

With her plate finished, Fjarille is free to play her paws idly against the lantern she’s kept snug in her lap, looking downturned and curled in on herself like a little pill bug.

Moomintroll feels nails digging into him, seeing her like this.

After dinner and the dishes are washed, the children hurry to retrieve their designated candles to light for the vigil. They’re excited for it only because of what will ensue after it: cake and presents. And since they’re too young to really get the ceremony and what it means, Moomintroll lets their grating excitement against the hollow ache of his heart subside.

They all gather up their coats in the doorway, with (of course) Madge holding onto the matchbox and basket of big flowers. They sloppily button up their jackets and gloat amongst their siblings on who gave the best present, or who will receive the biggest slice of cake.

“Pappa,” Fjarille stands besides Moomintroll’s chair, steepling her fingers together. “We...is he c-coming too?”

“Yes, of course sweet,” Moomintroll says, albeit thickly. “Snufkin?”

The other perks his ears and blinks, from where he’s still toying with his untouched sausage.

“Um...well, we hold a vigil at night, and—”

He doesn’t need to say anymore; whatever dark expression Snufkin gives at that — contempt, shock, anger, sorrow, whatever else Moomintroll feels searing-hot on his own fur — he discards it.

Slanted, Snufkin replies, “I see…”

Moomintroll wastes no time joining the others at the door with Fjarille in tow, and not a second later he hears the abrupt whine of Snufkin’s chair against the floor.

“Let’s make this quick,” Fjarille mutters, in a tone that shocks her father.

Someone opens the door, and Moomintroll feels tugged along as the family huddles against the cold and walks down to the beach.

* * *

Even if there were stars out tonight, or a moon, it’d be swallowed up by the mist wrapped around the island. Only the friendly, warm squares of window-light on the cottage protrude from the dark, and smaller still is Moomintroll’s lamp he uses to guide everyone’s feet down the rock-cliff.

Snufkin trails behind with his heels catching on all the wrong places, to where even Skiffle has to guide him down to smoother rock.

Moomintroll won’t focus on him, not tonight. No matter the chords in his stomach, nearly making him regret his large meal.

See, every year, till the end of Moomintroll’s life, he’s sworn to cast his grievances out to the open waters to be considered, cradled, and burrowed into the earth. If she has continued to die every day, as the departed do, then she will continue to live through this vigil. He’s hellbent on that, for it to matter, somehow.

The family reaches the water’s edge in no time, with the night-eyes of the bunch beating everyone else there. They patiently wait for Madge and her box of goodies, being: long purple candles as thick as claws. She passes them out to each small paw, and then she fishes for the bluebells.

The flowers are plump, which is how one can tell they’d been influenced by fae magick. Bluebella is very kind enough to allow her skerry to be picked clean on every birthday, and they always bloom back the size of Moomintroll’s fist, curled. Although they haven’t exactly met, she accepts the offering of warm clothes and jam bottles and walnuts that are fortuitously gone by the time Moomintroll visits to bring more.

After great hesitance, Moomintroll watches Madge pass the last of each bunch over to Snufkin, who’s almost melded into the backdrop completely if not for his staining yellow pupils.

Angrily, he watches Snufkin turn her down and then cross his arms, looking away.

_Fine, then._

The children whisper to the flowers with their secret blessings, Moomintroll mirroring them to catch up, and at once the bluebells unfurl so wide that the tips of their petals reach out to tickle the knuckles of everyone’s palm-up paws. The sweet fragrance hits like the waves soaking their toes.

Unlike normal flowers, fae flowers are essentially possible living quarters, so the pistil of them are very sturdy like the floors in a house. The slim filaments, fluffy with pollen, have a wiry sort of flexibility to them, so it’s easy to adjust the bluebells into candleholders.

As everyone fixes their candles accordingly into the pistil, Moomintroll keeps giving secondary glances over to Snufkin, who still won’t budge or look at the display. Feeling particularly brave, and particularly sour, he walks over to him.

“You don’t want to join?” he asks, keeping his voice low.

Snufkin crimps his mouth and still won’t face him.

“It won’t be any good,” he says in turn. “I know what you’re trying to do.”

Moomintroll bristles, his glare widening. “And what would you do, then? What you do best? _Nothing?_ ”

Snufkin turns to him at last, looking struck.

He sighs, loosening his hackles in favor of peace. Just for now.

“Do whatever you want, Snufkin,” he says. “I’m not listening to you anymore.”

He walks away before Snufkin can attempt a reply.

All the candles are lit in their substitute floats, casting the petals in a flame that peeks through them like skies through frosted glass. The floral smell sharpens and makes Moomintroll lick his chop a bit, reminding him of the honeysuckles back in the valley.

“Pappa,” Fjarille yanks his apron, holding his discarded bluebell candle atop her head with her own paws full.

He smiles at her, taking it, and there’s a skitter along the beachside that perks his interest. Moomintroll swerved around just in time, minding his light against the wind, to lift his ears with joy.

“Shadow!” he breathes with relief. “I knew you’d arrive.”

The black critter joins his side, sweeping sand flecks off his knees, and looks up with friendly eyes.

“Of course I would,” Shadow says kindly. “I’m here, dear friend. I’m here.”

The sting in Moomintroll’s eyes blurs the candlelight into liquid droplets of sun; he ought to get on with it.

Taking the lead, he wades knee-deep into the inky waters and gently coaxes the flattened flower onto the rippling surface. On instinct some of the petals reach back up to the base of the candle, to secure it; behind him more flowers follow it out to farther waters, ebbing back and forth like on a live pulse.

The lights slowly depart, clustering together and then floating apart, as they’re tugged out to the dark and endless horizon. A sudden burn forms in Moomintroll’s nose, watching them leave, and he feels the paw of someone thread into his.

...It’s Genevieve, actually. She’s on the skin of the sea like the candles, looking sadly up at her father because she’s too smart in sensing grief. She’s picked up and held close by Moomintroll, who can’t even tell the nip of her velvet skin from the ocean chill.

He recites the prayer from someone else’s mouth: “Bless this day with the splendor of fire, the freedom of the wind, the stability of the earth, and the depth of the sea.

“Guide us through the night, and through the sun-lit days. Merry part and merry meet. In soul and heart, blessed be.”

“Blessed be,” is echoed softly from the shores.

The children stare on, waiting for the cue to depart, but those who have been on the island the longest know better than to interrupt their father’s rituals. His life before them are kept under secure lock and key, but death crosses all horizons, unfortunately. So some are more sympathetic in waiting for Moominpappa’s return.

At last Moomintroll lets out a crooked breath, and feeling the friendly slap of the morit’s tail against his belly he walks back to the beach.

When he returns, he sets Genevieve back down and looks to Fjarille — he wouldn’t have known if she uttered the prayer too or not, but she’s on the far end of the crowd flexing her mymble toes in the sand.

Shadow taps on his soaked legs, looking worried. “Are you alright, Moomin?” he asks.

With the children respectfully distant, and with the assurance that Shadow is a very close friend of his, Moomintroll leans down.

“I want Snufkin to be gone,” he whispers fiercely, and Shadow cranes his neck to listen.

The creep looks saddened. His tiny paw takes Moomin’s finger and squeezes, then lets go.

Children don’t always understand sorrow and all its dirty implications; it gathers on the tops of their skin because they haven’t learned to soak it in. So the silence is quickly ruined by a very innocent Pudsey: “Can we eat cake now?”

A ripple of agreement follows suit.

Moomintroll can only be grateful because this means he won’t have to mourn awkwardly with Snufkin in the way. “One slice each,” he reminds them all.

They all flee back up the hill — cake and presents await! — while Skiffle is assisted by Madge up the rock, both of whom glance over their shoulder once to check in with their father before giving up and joining the others.

Fjarille stays behind.

Moomintroll reaches out for her, concerned. “Darling—”

She eludes his grip, picking at her sleeves again whilst tumbling up the rocky steps.

The three remaining watch her go, but none confide about it with each other. They all just tightly frown, thinking _‘poor mite’_ in their own ways, and then Moomin looks to Shadow again.

“Thank you for being here, friend,” he says.

Shadow nods. “Of course, Moomin. Tell them happy birthday for me.”

“Of course I will.”

Just as quickly as he came, the little creep melts into the night like he belongs there, back to his home right on the other end of the island. Perhaps, Moomintroll thinks, he should visit tomorrow to offer leftovers.

Snufkin has kept still for so long there ought to be weeds sprouting from his boots.

He sharpens up when Moomintroll walks his way, but is nudged past in favor of Moomin walking back to the home in a boiling quiet. He thinks he hears the troll mutter, “Let’s go,” but neither are sure about that.

* * *

Fjarille’s presents lay out on the table as a proud sort of presentation, where she marvels at all her gifts and the gift-givers continue to brag about them. The chocolate cake smudges the corners of their mouths as they toy with the trinkets, and Fjarille snaps at them to set it down before anything’s broken.

She finds particular interest in the pan flute the Woodies carved especially for her, with personal designs etched into the spruce bark (Woodies craft their own instruments when they’re of age, so to be given a flute from a Woodie is to be given a chunk of their heart). Although every ear flattens when she tries to play, she gets assurance from those with a special knack for music that they’d be glad to teach her.

Moomintroll lists Snufkin sideways, half-expecting, half-challenging him to speak up.

He doesn’t.

When he whisks them upstairs to brush their teeth, he enlists the help of Madge, naturally, to make a bed for Snufkin on the couch, tucking in the coverlets from the nearby basket to make him more comfortable than he deserves. Fluffing the pillows, too, is second nature, because he’s been taught to be _too_ kind to visitors.

“Thistles for his duvet?” Madge jokes, but the sharp glint of her eyes makes Moomintroll decide better than to test her.

“Just the flannelette will do,” he says instead.

Winnie pops up from the basket right as Madge picks out a blanket on top; their face is freshly cleaned. “Hey!” they cry. “I was gonna use that one!”

“Too bad,” Madge retorts, sweeping the flannel across the couch for good measure.

“Winnie,” Moomintroll says, “I didn’t see any present from you on the table.”

They blink, and look like they’ve been caught with a paw in the cookie jar.

Moomintroll swallows a sigh; any other night and he’d scold them, but for now… “You need to give it to them by tomorrow. You understand?”

Winnie nods in haste.

“Now are you going to be sleeping inside tonight?” he goes on. “It’s getting chilly.”

“Nope, I’ll just take a quilt!”

Against his instincts, Moomintroll gives Winnie the thickest quilt he can find and sends them off with warm milk and many kisses on their cheek. He wishes them safe dreams, and should they wake up at any point sneezing they’re to come inside immediately.

Fjarille pokes her head out between the banister, straight above the couch/Snufkin’s bed.

Kneeling upwards, Moomintroll presses a moomin kiss to the space between her eyes, nuzzling slightly.

“Happy birthday, woolie,” he says, pulling away. “Go to bed now, I’ll be up soon to bring you milk.”

“And toffee.”

“And toffee.”

Satisfied, she wriggles backwards and regroups with the others upstairs, where Moomin hears the nightly fuss of who gets to wash up next.

Madge offers a thin frown that could mean a multitude of things, then goes upstairs as well, right after casting a peek at Snufkin who waits by the doorframe of the sitting area, looking out of place.

Moomintroll stares back at him: he’s got a striped nightgown and, more alarmingly, black-rimmed glasses which perch on the bridge of his joxter nose.

It takes him back in a way that he didn’t expect. The remembrance that this Snufkin is older, just like him, but he didn’t _watch_ him get older.

He’s not sure what to make of that.

“Would you like some tea?” Moomintroll asks, returning to his post by the couch.

Snufkin wrings his paws. “Oh. That would be lovely, thank y—”

“Caddy is on the cabinet to the left,” he says. “You can find the cups yourself.”

Snufkin opens his mouth, then thinks better.

“Sleep well,” Moomintroll turns straight on his heel to march up the steps. It may be childish, but his brain feels like a bad stew and he’s close to boiling over, so he has a deliberate snap in his feet just so Snufkin keeps knowing, and sleeps with pinpricks of shame all night. That’d be pleasant, but unlikely — Snufkin never feels bad about anything.

Moomin’s bedtime routine is stilted, but fine-tuned; he gets into pajamas passed down from his father, gives the children a piece of toffee and blessings for dreams, passed down from his mother.

If Snufkin is still here by morning, somehow, Moomintroll has plenty of time to learn to be civil. Not now, when everything is sticking to his mind and feeling muddy and disgusting and jagged.

No, not tonight. There are too many secrets coming out of their hiding spots tonight. Tomorrow they’ll be put away again, and he will instead be as polite or as angry as he wants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (john mulaney voice) and he was wearing glasses, to show that time had passed
> 
> edit: this story got some fanart!!! what!!!!! thank you so much for @girnyo [for real Trash Dad Hours!!!!](https://girnyo.tumblr.com/post/634525930731208704/moomintroll-stares-back-at-him-hes-got-a-striped) i seriously didn't expect Any art to come from my works so from the bottom of my heart....Thank You


	3. the jam

_It was early summer. The memory smells like honey and deep cedar. He feels the gentle tug of the stream he’s led across, hugging his knees, and Moomin’s eyes are fixed on the undulating spine beneath the green dress._

_They stopped in a clearing, as intimate as an alcove, and the memory shines with the diluted, warm sunlight which spills onto his features._

_And then he took his paws, delicate, and guided it downward to where the last line of his ribs were. Encasing the stomach._

_The slants of sun through trees bended around him, making his silhouette golden and holy. His eyes were nervous and wild and very alive, but they were also so, so soft._

_Moomintroll’s mind felt scattered like a chorale of wrens have trapped themselves in him. Not one is in tune, they could only ascend from a lively chirping to full-fledged screams of delight._

_“I’m...a bit surprised you didn’t notice,” he admitted, looking a mix of bashful and incredibly nervous._

_“No...” Moomintroll whispered. Their paws remained locked together on the stomach._

_He felt the stretch of his eyes as the realization bursted in him like a popped balloon — his partner chewed a lip and had to turn away, digging his claws into where they entangled with Moomin’s._

_“Moominmamma suggested I wear some dresses from the attic,” he hedged, quite slowly, as if the world were a dream. “I thought...perhaps I was just ill, but…”_

_“I’d thought you were gaining weight!” Moomintroll interrupted, his voice ripping loose to where the scared flutter of birds erupted from the trees. He babbled on: “You were so happy so I’d—I’d supposed you were fattened up like a moomin — and I...I didn’t want to ask since you— oh, Snufkin, truly?”_

_He looked back to nod, smiling nervously._

_Moomintroll barreled into him and they spun and he laughed—_

_But stars, children..._

_Children!!_

_He’d never been alive until that moment — if his face were to be buried like a grave between his shoulderblades, his fattening belly prodding against him, and they stayed that way forever with no one ever looking at them again, that would be just fine._

_Moomintroll returns to earth eventually; his mind goes soupy from spinning about carefree as a young baby moomin, and he breaks the curtain of windswept red from his lover’s face. And their eyes are glittering and everything feels fresh and new like a wound but nothing could be more perfect._

_“Thank you,” Moomintroll whispered — he planted the words against his forehead, when did he lose his hat? Somewhere between the twirling, no doubt, but oh who cared about that — “Thank you so much…”_

_Snufkin clasped his muzzle between his paws, spreading his fingers, and they stayed like that for so long they could have become statues._

_Things were right, Moomintroll thought. Everything was more alright than it’s ever been. His life lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was waiting to release._

_Between the lovers, that pause in time, was a single, unified understanding. Unspoken but heard by both, and whispered between sheets and beneath stares later on:_

_‘We’re going to be so happy.’_

* * *

Moomintroll wakes to the filaments of yellow dust floating from the curtains downward, to rest on his fur, and the wedge of sun warms the chunk of his fur that it’s hitting.

He also notices a sort of chill right beneath the blankets, tucked up right next to his belly.

If it weren’t routine, he’d be more confused. Instead he sighs and draws back the bedsheets to see the blurry mound of lavender nestled beside him, nearly falling off the bed entirely.

Muddled with sleep Moomintroll offers a grumbled, “Good morning, darling.”

Genevieve stirs, poking her head out from the little Groke loaf she’s huddled into. Her teeth show, and she blinks before she pulls her arms out from under her belly to sign, _Warm!!_

He chuckles, which turns into a cough. Parched, he reaches for the lukewarm glass of water he’s set out for himself, minding that he doesn’t knock over the powder-white tablets beside them.

“S’everyone else awake too?” he says, after gorging the glass dry.

Genevieve raises her shoulders a bit.

When the light becomes dizzying, Moomintroll pinches at the long space between his eyes, squinting them shut with a long sigh.

“Alright,” he decides. “I must get going, I’m not sure how long they can wait for the pancakes to be done.”

At ‘pancakes,’ Genevieve’s tail picks up speed from where it hangs over the side.

Moomintroll chuckles again. “Yes, yes, Moominpappa’s famous pancakes with jam. Hold your applause.” He makes to get out of bed, minding the little morit as he scoops her up properly, bringing her into his lap and cloaking her with the spare corners of his sheets. His paws find the floor and he gives a yawn that shows the fangs embedded way back in his mouth.

The events of yesterday are hazy, and it’ll take a bit of walking around and moving to barrel the memories back into him. But, that’s fine. He’s got lots of mandatory chores that leave his mind aimless, and he’s sure to touch back down to earth then.

With one arm holding Genevieve, he reaches for the pills waiting on the bedside, knocking them back with a clever swig before chasing the ashy taste with water.

* * *

The hallway is slim, the whole second floor was an afterthought because as more children came the less room Moomintroll’s bed could withhold. So, built into steady rock, with no windows, the rooms come together like jumbled puzzle pieces, but the children are often happy to just have a room at all so they never complain about the odd layout.

Moomintroll passes by the few rooms they could build, with the hallway lined with beige wallpaper and painted corncrakes; the second door down he hears the monotone cries of the telegraph.

The noise rattles about in his mind a minute before he recognizes it for what it is.

Moomintroll knocks on the door, fighting a yawn as he calls, “Who from?”

Skiffle answers, sounding distracted. “Snorkmaiden. Hush!”

 _Snorkmaiden!_ She hasn’t called or written in ages, and by the rapid sounds of her typing it sounds as though she has a story to tell.

He lets himself in, and upon the neat desk on the far end of the room, Skiffle sat with hir back hunched over the telegraph key — ze’d requested to sleep in the same room as it, as ze’s proprietorial over the device.

And, with or without sight, morse is quite universal to comprehend; if ze feels the slightest bit in control after such brutal loss of sight, Moomintroll will gladly tout that to hir.

Anyway, ze sits in total concentration of the (poor thing) mile-a-minute typing of Snorkmaiden that only ze has the patience to decipher. For each letter received, Skiffle types it into a nearby typewriter; Moomintroll notices with both excitement and dread how Snorkmaiden’s letter is already at two pages.

Skiffle seems to notice hir father’s gawking and just sighs, but doesn’t pull away from the task. “She’ll probably be done at about noon. Got enough gum for ten rows of teeth, it seems.”

“Be nice,” Moomin says mildly. “Should I bring your pancakes up to you?”

Skiffle doesn’t peek up as ze types a whole paragraph out. “Sure.”

“Do let me know when she’s finished,” he says as he walks out the door, seeing that Genevieve has grown bored enough to doze off again. When he reaches the door her eyes are bleary and her yawn leaves dewdrops of frost on the tips of his fur.

“Your friend is gone.”

Moomintroll pauses, holding the doorknob.

“My friend?”

“The weird Irish man.”

“Irish— Snufkin isn’t—” It strikes him like flint on tinder. Moomintroll turns away. “I see.”

Skiffle is much too busy with Snorkmaiden’s frantic morse to respond. Even if ze did, it wouldn’t have restitched the yawning chasm Moomintroll feels, split open all over again.

He hates himself for that. He really does; what about this was meant to be different?

Snufkin is never going to stay. Moomin has learned that. And learned that, and learned that, and learned that.

Genevieve makes a noise of irritation, seeing that her steed is immobile. So, re-covering her shoulders with the quilt, Moomintroll closes the door behind him as quietly as possible.

He moves on, because no one else will prepare breakfast, and to him that’s a very good reason to brush the hurt right out of him.

* * *

He’s barely downstairs, and there’s noise rattling against all of his senses. Noise from the television, noise from the creaky stairs, noise of the children waiting for breakfast, noise of the cupboards being swung open and slammed shut again.

Brushing a paw down one side of his face, he mumbles a greeting to every face he notices come into his proximity. Even if they ask a question of sorts, all Moomintroll can provide is “Good morning, how are you,” and moving on.

It’s not that Moomintroll isn’t a morning person, nor that he only loves children when it suits him. He blames the slush of a brain on the new medicine Too-Ticky has to telephone her way around offering him. Sugar absorbs a moomin body like a sponge, keeping them thick and happy, but the same cannot be said for any sort of serious, prolonged medicine with long names and a longer list of side effects.

Alas, this sadness has been imprinted on his lineage — Moominmamma with her weary eyes, painting desperate sunbeams, Moominpappa with his gaze pointed to the sea, lost in its depths — it was fate that he’d been given that as well. 

That’s okay. Moomintroll has always been a sort of guinea pig for these types of pills for years now, and he’s got on accepting that— putting it blunt, there’s no cure that’s going to stick on him. Putting it nicely, he’s going to be trying new ways to live until he’s dead.

Well, that’s not putting it nicely. But if anyone has a sugar-sweet perspective on his case than Moomintroll is all ears.

Anyway. He somehow slinks from downstairs and to the sitting-room without tripping over anything, and from there some windows in his head begin to open up and let the light back in.

The couch looks untouched. If it weren’t for the folded coverlets and pillowcases right beside the floor, Moomintroll might have concluded that he imagined the whole thing.

 _Of course._ He repeats it, sterner: _Of course._

He drops Genevieve off onto the couch, where she’s content to just sit and make a small nest of all the blankets in the wicker bassinet below the armrest. As long as she puts them back (which she always has), Moomintroll lets her do as she pleases.

Stretching, and yawning again rather loudly, Moomintroll smacks his lips and scratches a stray area on his side. “Morning, dear.”

He doesn’t even have to open his eyes to know that Madge is there, setting the table before being asked. She seems ecstatic to promote her new stove privileges as often as she wants because she’s already turned it on without using it.

“Ah,” Moomintroll says, dialing it down till the blue fire is distinguished. “Maybe wait before you burn all the oil?”

Madge gives a displeasured noise, but doesn’t argue as she organizes the silverware.

Pudsey has gotten himself on the counter, somehow, and is already raiding the tea caddy; the stray leaves, petals, seeds, and pouches are spewed across the surface.

“Morning, Pappa,” he says cheerily.

“Good morning,” Moomintroll nods, readying the flour to sift; he lifts the bag seamlessly over his shoulder and reaches for a knife. “Making more tea?”

“I’m personalizing it,” Pudsey explains, a smidge boastful. “Everyone will get their own tea flavors!”

“How thoughtful,” Moomintroll says absently. A cloud of flour strikes his nose as it’s poured in a large bowl — if he gets any on himself he’s none the wiser.

“I made Madge one,” he reports. “She didn’t drink it.”

“Because I’m allergic to rosehips! Off with you!” Madge cries from across the way.

“That’s nice,” Moomin sighs. “Have you made one for me?”

Pudsey looks at his display of sachets, some of them literally pinned or glued together. He brings a finger to his chin, considering it.

“Would youuu like aaaaa,” he stalls as his fingers trample over the tea-tins, before lifting up a, “elberflower with ginger mix? I put cinnamon in there, too.”

There’s bits of flower seeds still clinging to the webbed outside of it. Incredible how a child can still find a way to make a tea bag look so unappetizing.

Moomintroll gulps, ceasing his work on the batter to fake a grin. “Oh, lovely! A new recipe?”

“Mhm!” he trills. “Made it just for you!”

 _Damn it._ “How sweet of you! I’ll...be sure to drink it.”

Pleased, Pudsey stands on the counter and happily searches for mugs, which almost makes the lie worth it.

(Moomintroll shouldn’t be one to judge so soon, he remembers being small and Mamma teaching him the divine ropes of tea-making: he was so excited he shoveled in too many leaves and made all his drinks taste sour. His throat was tinged with the aftertaste of cornflower and mint for a month, as he was too stubborn to admit his tea was imperfect.)

Moomintroll fishes through the cabinets, plotting down the collection of jam the children will add to their pancakes. He’d had a wonderful mentor to show him the different types to make — from marmalade to black currant to strawberry to dandelion to plum, apricot, cloudberry, and honey-lemon. All neatly arranged on the table alongside the honey pitcher, margarine, and cream jug.

Satisfied, Moomintroll pats his batter-caked paws on his apron to smudge it with his white pad-prints. He washes the remaining flakes off with a wet cloth.

“There you are!” Before he can wonder about where she’s off to, Fjarille trudges down the steps with a yawn she struggles to capture beneath a fist. Her pajamas and fur are still frazzled with sleep, her antennae drooping.

“Good morning, moth,” Moomintroll greets her, beaming, as she pulls out her chair to seat herself even when it isn’t time to eat yet. “Aren’t you excited to celebrate more of your birth-week?”

Fjarille, half-muddled, repeats ‘birth-week’ to herself and dissolves it on her tongue while she wakes up. She rubs her face and asks, “Wh...where’s Papa?”

Moomintroll’s face drops, heart plummeting.

“He’s left, dear,” he says, gently as he can muster. “I...I’m sorry, it wasn’t anything you could have done that—”

Fjarille interrupts him with a mean twitch of her antennae, and she furiously shakes her head.

“You can,” Moomintroll takes a breath, “you can talk to me about that, you know?”

“N’know.”

He doesn’t want to pry into her thoughts so early in the morning, when everything feels too fresh without the aid of pancakes with jelly. Moomin leaves her be, giving her a final sidelong look before flipping the cakes over, one after the other.

His head is occupied with the sizzling stovetops and morning cartoons waning in offscreen, where the children are in hysterics over some slapstick humor. Madge plucks a few keys on her piano before getting properly distracted, and after twisting Moomintroll’s arm about it he jokingly asks for her to alphabetize their mugs — which she does, somehow.

Pudsey finishes up his own tea-making and offers each house-member pooling into the room (smelling the wonderful pancakes) their own pouches, of which some decline until they catch Moomintroll’s eye, and reluctantly accept.

At last the cakes are perfect puffy texture for Moomintroll to toss them onto large supper plates, separating them by how much he knows each child would want.

He also leaves the smaller pancake portions he’d make in a small satchel beside the sink, and a green pouch for the sea-cakes (which are, in actuality, pancakes where the batter is replaced with seaweed). Those are for when he makes his daily rounds on the island.

Moomintroll passes the plates around, and they’re glady snatched up with hungry paws. He feels a burst of love at each thanks he’s given for the meal, almost better than eating the food himself. It’s a quick run up to Skiffle’s room to deliver the cakes, offering hir a moomin kiss ze doesn’t look up for, but that’s fine.

At last he sits, placing a napkin into his lap, he allows the daily prayers to be spoken before everyone digs in. The clattering of utensils is such a homey sound to him.

“We’re low on cloudberry jam,” Fisk notices sadly.

Moomintroll peeks over to see that, yes, with the popularity of the jam’s taste a few smudges of grubby paw-stains line the near-empty mason jar. Aside from the bubbling pool of amber on the bottom the jam is nearing a memory.

“Yes,” Moomintroll muses. “We’ll have to go and pick some more soon.”

“I want some now, though,” Fisk pouts.

“Fine,” Moomin sighs. “I’ll see if I can pick up some berries before luncheon. How’s that?”

Fisk nods happily.

As Moomintroll dices up his pancakes into bite-sizes, it occurs to him quite suddenly that there are four chairs empty; in fact, there should be two of those that are filled.

“Have you seen Winnie and Posey?” he asks the table.

The most he gets are shrugs, but Pudsey speaks up, “Last I checked Posey was gonna go talk to someone outside.”

Moomintroll blinks. “Excuse me?”

Pudsey doesn’t answer because his mouth is too full of pancakes, and even when he swallows he doesn’t elaborate, just simply goes back to his chatter amongst the kids.

Moomintroll sighs. He isn’t worried, though; he has too much to fuss over and unless he wants his fur _and_ mind to grey as quickly as Moominpappa’s had, he best keep his head screwed on.

The daylight opens and spreads across the tableware, and as if a spell had been cast the room is alight with good cheer. Moomintroll shares kind laughs with his children and his tongue is sweetened by the spoonful of black currant he eats alongside Pudsey’s extremely watered-down tea.

He doesn’t think about Snufkin’s departure.

Not once.

* * *

When the food and the pills properly simmer in his stomach, Moomintroll’s thoughts become a checklist; he used to ponder on how Moominmamma juggled so much without even raising a brow about it, and now it seems that day of acumen is inching closer than he thought.

He first starts with the garden, which he will have to tend to, and this trails to wondering which plants need to be picked; he’d gotten some sorrel seeds from a neighbor and he’ll need to find some space to squeeze them in. Maybe if he prematurely digs up the potatoes, but will that tarnish the soil at all—?

Outside he steps, wiping his eyes so he can only rely on muscle memory to guide him.

..Which fails him instantly, and during a long sigh Moomintroll trips over something large with a very dignified “ _YIPE!!_ ”

He stumbles _inches_ from where he’d have tumbled down the stairs and onto the thankless rocks suffocating the porch; recovering with a groan, he rubs his poor chin which took the fall quite hard and he blushes in shame for it.

“Morning!” someone beside him chirps, unfazed, and then he realizes he hears the bubbling of a pot.

Moomintroll can only groan a, “What,” before he turns and is mere inches away from Snufkin’s face — releasing another very dignified scream as he scrambles away.

“Did I wake you?” Snufkin — _Snufkin_ (???!!!!!???) — asks. He looks a touch concerned, but more baffled at why Moomintroll is splattered on the floor when it’s already so uncomfortable to begin with.

“N-no, I— I… What ARE you doing?” Moomintroll squawks, still comforting his bruised muzzle. “Why are you on my porch??”

“I’m here too!” Winnie pops out from the crevice of Snufkin’s luggage sitting next to him.

Posey, who is settled on Snufkin’s crisscrossed lap, would pitch in too but she’s too busy slurping down a bowl of soup with two paws.

“It’s excellent weather for camping,” Snufkin explains much too briefly. “And it was a bit stuffy inside—”

“If you didn’t want to be a bother and sleep elsewhere you could have just said so,” Moomintroll points out, exasperated.

Snufkin blinks, but doesn’t try to counterpoint that. Sometimes knowing Snufkin inside and out is helpful, Moomintroll thinks a touch too smugly.

Not that his shock is totally quelled, though; the fact that Snufkin _stayed_ is an outcome Moomin forgot to get used to. He’s still fighting back a headache over it.

Winnie properly comes out of their hiding spot with their short tail wagging, seeming very pleased. “He’s makin’ us sea stew!” they say happily. “Like the real sailors eat!”

Moomintroll perks a brow in Snufkin’s direction.

“I did need to get rid of some fish,” he explains, sounding a shade embarrassed.

“Fish this early in the morning?” Moomintroll says with a note of displeasure. “Seems uncanny.”

“You were a sailor,” Snufkin argues. “Wouldn’t you know?”

Moomintroll grits his teeth.

“I’m more impressed that you didn’t run off, really,” he says instead.

If Snufkin had any debate against that, he tamps it down and instead drops the soup-filled ladle into Posey’s emptied bowl. She immediately slurps it up with a noise that makes both Moomintroll and Snufkin drop their ears.

“Is that jam?” Winnie asks, pointing to Moomintroll’s paw.

He holds up the jar for all to see. “Er, yes, not much in it but—”

“Gimme!”

“Gimme _please._ ”

Winnie rolls their eyes, but surrenders. “Gimme _please._ ”

Moomintroll passes the remnants of the jam to them, reaching over Snufkin’s bags to do so as they scurry excitedly out of their hidey-hole beneath the bedroll.

They all watch in shared horror as Winnie drops the bits of leftover fish in their bowl and into the remnants of cloudberry jam, stirring them into a terrible hodgepodge that they happily eat a spoonful of.

Moomintroll kindly turns away to hide his gag, and only Posey is brave enough to exclaim, “What’s the _matter_ with you?”

Winnie just swallows their bite with a shrug.

The door opens again and out comes Fjarille, shuffling herself awkwardly into a large coat that balloons her little body. Her arm movements are stiff as she reaches up to the knob with effort, unaware of all the heads that have turned to watch her.

“Going out, darling?” Moomintroll asks, catching her offguard to where her fur fluffs up.

He watches her eyes trail from his face to somewhere behind him, and he has a good guess on what she’s staring at.

Fjarille then tucks her head down. “Th-the...M’ going to the sate...satellite…”

Moomintroll attempts composure with a smile. “That’s fun! Do you want me to--”

She races off the steps, her mymble pads slapping against the boards, and she’s gone adrift in the reeds.

“Join you…”

Moomintroll frowns, feeling a drop of pity for her. _Poor beast._

“I can go with her,” Posey tries, stepping up and abandoning their empty soup bowl. Moomintroll feels very proud of her, seeing her so sternly determined to help her sister.

“She’d like that,” Moomintroll murmurs with a gracious smile.

“I wanna go too!” Winnie exclaims. They pounce from their spot like a mink from its den, showing off a porous grin. “Lemme come please!!”

“Sure!” Posey smiles in return.

“Now hold on,” Moomintroll warns, “Winnie, didn’t you promise that today you’d—?”

It’s much too late, as he’d suspected, because they’d already pelted off towards Fjarille, screaming her name.

This leaves…

Snufkin packs his things away in a haste Moomintroll recognizes as discomfort. He won’t look at him, not even a passing glance.

“So.” Moomintroll crosses his arms. “Here you are, then.”

“Here I am.”

His cool tone only feels like sand in his orifices. Moomintroll stiffens up. “Do you know how long you’ll be here for?”

“Oh…” Snufkin looks up only to view the horizon on his left, a few strands of his hair getting stuck on his lips. “That storm won’t be letting up for some time. It’ll depend solely on the clouds, I think.”

“And Fjarille?”

Snufkin pauses, just for a moment, but Moomintroll notices. “And Fjarille?”

“Do you plan to talk with them at all?”

There’s a great, palpable hesitance that answers Moomin before Snufkin does.

“There isn’t much to talk about,” he decides, stuffing away his cutlery.

Moomintroll feels a deep flare-up from his heart to his stomach at that; above anything else his anger is just sore at this point.

There’s no reason to keep being civil, not with the other children gone and off doing their own fancies. He isn’t sure why he can’t just release this festering ugliness at the base of his throat; it might do some good to let Snufkin know _exactly_ what he’s working with.

He can’t. Moomintroll has been cursed with the maturity to know that screaming and screaming and screaming till it’s all out of him isn’t what’s going to make anything better.

In lieu of fury, he chooses the path of being kind.

“If you don’t have any qualms about it,” Moomintroll answers evenly. “I have chores I need to do, so I’ll be busy today.”

“I don’t mind,” Snufkin says, lightly. “I’ll follow you then.”

He feels a hard swallow. “Alright. I’m going to Shadow’s house first, if you want to come.”

“Shadow?” Snufkin perks up. “Your little friend?”

“That’s the one.” Moomintroll runs a tired paw along the front of his snout, throwing a tired glance to the sea whom is indifferent to the cauldron of odd, swirling things he’s feeling. “It won’t take very long, and then I’ll...oh, yes, I need to go get berries too—”

He’s taken out of his patter by seeing the growing, languid smile raising Snufkin’s cheeks.

“I’ll be happy to come,” he says.

“Great,” Moomintroll coughs, shying away from a stare. “Good. Erm, onwards, then?”

“Yip, yip,” replies the other.

He doesn’t know why that ancient flutter in the pit of him is laced with such intangible pain.

* * *

Shadow, like many creeps, descended from the little beasts that found solace in human stoves. While moomins preferred the backs of tile stoves, those who could squeeze into three-legged ovens or cauldrons resided there.

He and his wife live in a small, rounded house built into the cliff, overlooking the sea. Its wooden siding remains bare — although Moomintroll offered the bucket of leftover white paint from his own house’s tarnishing, Shadow kindly declined.

His company is small and easily overlooked, compared to the screaming children teetering about the island, but Moomintroll appreciates the solemn support nonetheless. He’d been the only one that had been allowed to accompany the troll when he left Moominvalley; it was Moomintroll that insisted Shadow peel away into his own type of residence, rather than sticking to him closer than glue.

Moomintroll knows, deep down, that his little friend whom has known him since he was small is very worried for him.

The small chimney pants smoke into the morning air when he knocks a finger against the small red door. “Shadow?” he calls. “I’ve brought you something from breakfast!”

In the interval between Shadow answering and Moomintroll calling, there is the space filled with waves and the awkward shoe-shuffling of Snufkin right behind; he’s doing an excellent job at looking unwelcome with every new place he steps on this island, with his arms unsteadily crossed and his whiskers dancing against the wind.

Moomintroll doesn’t peek at him for very long when Shadow comes out onto his small porch and is delighted. “Moomin! Hello my friend, what brings you here?”

“Hello Shadow,” Moomintroll greets him. “I’d made you and your wife some extra pancakes from this morning.”

“Oh, how lovely,” Shadow beams. He reaches up to take the satchel of warm food; it looks comically big in his arms, compared to how they could fit right into Moomin’s palm. “Thank you, Moomin, thank you! You know how much we adore your cooking.”

“Aw, well,” Moomintroll flushes with a chuckle. “I had an excellent teacher, that’s all.”

“That you did,” Shadow nods sagely — there was only one other person he adored to the same degree of Moomintroll, being Moominmamma; Moomintroll thought her placement alongside him in Shadow’s heart was very well-deserved.

Inevitably, though, Shadow’s eyes wander to spot the additional company. “Oh,” he says with surprise. “Hello, Snufkin.”

Snufkin answers, “Shadow.”

“Yes, well,” the other says, and wanting to desperately avoid another sticky atmosphere Moomintroll asserts himself much too chipper.

“How’s your wife been, Shadow?” he asks.

“Oh, much the same,” Shadow replies, adjusting the large bundle in his hold. “We’d been thinking of remodeling the kitchen and that’s all well and dandy. Dry as dust compared to your life, I’m sure!”

“Well, don’t be _too_ sure,” Moomintroll smiles. “There’s a routine in the chaos, you know.”

“Perhaps,” the creep drawls. “But children always find a way to keep one captivated. I remember you being a baby, your mother would fuss like the dickens till she made me to keep you safe!”

“From what I heard,” Moomin groans good-naturedly, “I’d fallen on my nose _once._ ”

“And that was enough for her,” Shadow laughs. “And for me, as well.”

Moomintroll’s snout lilts with a growing smile, love wrapping itself around him like a toasty blanket against the beach’s temperatures. Visiting Shadow was always a pat on his shoulder, no matter how ill he might’ve been feeling; the _you are here and you exist and that is already such a magnificent thing_ type of assurance, he craves it like anyone would, and Shadow has always kept his well of affections overflown.

Then he sees Shadow’s gaze derail again to where Snufkin is huddling against the cold; why the critter and his spouse built their home naked to the island’s elements Moomintroll hasn’t a clue, but the cold is likely seeping into Snufkin’s thin bones more than his.

“Well,” Shadow decides, “I best be off, my darling will certainly be pleased!”

“Say hello to her,” Moomintroll requests. “And tell her I still have some wallpaper left over if she needs any.”

“Thank you, kind friend,” his eyes gleam. “Goodbye.”

Shadow hobbles back inside with his load, kicking the door shut behind him.

With that being done, Moomintroll checks that off the list in his head and feels a bit more accomplished. But he still has some ways to go before he can end the day satisfied.

And Snufkin is there, too. He keeps remembering that so suddenly.

Without a word, they walk along the shores in unison, along the bendy, unstable patch the beach takes between dimpled pools and sharp, mossy rocks.

“How did you know that they liked stars?” Moomintroll asks at last.

Snufkin turns. “Hm? What?”

“Fjarille.”

“Oh,” he looks down. “Moominmamma may have mentioned it in her letters…”

Moomintroll stops to face his companion properly, gaze sharp. “She writes to you?”

“Not...often,” Snufkin admits with a tight frown. “Her letters just...always seem to know where to travel…”

“And do you write back?”

“Sometimes.”

“Sometimes,” Moomintroll scoffs under his breath, and on instinct the malice of his tone makes Snufkin’s red fur rise.

But, Moomintroll squanders the contempt in favor of keeping the peace — if not for him or for Snufkin then for proper appreciation for such a nice day. 

“I have to deliver these now,” Moomintroll reports, holding up the pouch of sea-cakes. “If you aren’t going to talk to your daughter then you can follow me there, too.”

Snufkin says, “Okay.”

* * *

The dock stands proud as ever among the cluster of mussel-ridden rocks, with waves gulping at the poles and leaving the barnacles shimmering. Without the layer of night draped over it but the sun still shrouded, the mist encircling it gives a sort of haunting aura..

The boats are tied to the posts, their bodies feathered with lichen acquired from afternoon fishing or casual visits to folks along the archipelago.

There are three of them parked in the harbor, bobbing in expectation: Snufkin’s boat, The Adventure (only used for long travel purposes), and a trusty, smaller skiff that Moomin built himself. Snorkmaiden and Little My both guffawed at the symmetry of it, but it holds up well and Moomintroll will _not_ waste his time fixing what isn’t broken, thank you very much.

Upon pointing out the skiff (proclaimed ‘The Soaring Dragon’ — another target of ridicule from the girls), Moomintroll explains, “We’ll take that one out to drop off the sea-cakes. It’ll be over and done in two shakes of a moomin tail.”

“Okay,” Snufkin says, looking over the boat. “You made this yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Hm,” he muses, daring a wistful sort of grin. “It looked like you had, but I wanted to be certain.”

Moomintroll doesn’t follow up on that.

“Hold the cakes, please,” he instructs instead, as Snufkin hops into the hull which rocks the boat a bit. “Don’t fall, either.”

“Trying not to,” Snufkin calls back as he balances with spread arms. At last his body halts and he’s able to safely reach out to grab the sack.

“Alright,” Moomintroll huffs to himself, crouching down to get to work and unspooling the rope from the cleat.

“I’m glad to row,” Snufkin says from above, “if you’ll show me where we’re going.”

“No, that’s alright,” Moomin dismisses. “It really won’t take long.”

“I wouldn’t mind if it did,” Snufkin replies, and Moomintroll watches him tilt his head straight up to the skies. “Perfect weather for fishing, actually. I’ve caught a few good pikes on my journey over.”

Moomintroll eases himself into the boat as well, cautious not to trip on the keelson as he’s done an embarrassing number of times.

“So where are we off to?” Snufkin asks at last, watching Moomintroll gather the rope under his feet. “You’ve been very discreet about it.”

“I’ll tell you when we’re there,” Moomintroll says. “Possibly.”

“Possibly,” Snufkin repeats, but there’s the shadow of amusement in his expression.

Moomintroll flits an eye up once and then back down again, ignoring any potential banter.

Snufkin leans back on his respective thwart, casting a gaze out to the infinite horizon, right where sky meets sea. Moomintroll dares to wonder what he might be thinking here, but it’s always been near impossible to guess the answer he might receive should he ask — often he’s just been more confused than enlightened.

That’s the wonder of Snufkin, all the different kaleidoscopes of rooms he locks up till someone is fortunate enough to gain a key.

 _...I don’t want to think about this anymore,_ Moomintroll thinks. _I’m not going to think about this for the remainder of the journey._

Resolute, Moomintroll grabs his oars and pulls it against the tide with newfound strength. The sea awaits, tugging him back into its heart like a familiar caress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fjarille: when i die i want my snufkinpappa to be the one to lower me into the grave so he can let me down one last time
> 
> comments and kudos are much appreciated!


	4. the cloudberry patch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw for animal death in this chapter, nothing graphic though

The wind works against him today; Moomintroll feels stuck and wriggling around like a bug in amber as he pushes against the ruffled waves, binding them.

Really, he’s only assured they’ve made progress when Snufkin gives him affirmation that the island looks small on the horizon. When he isn’t finding interest in the cottage growing tinier with distance, he’s enamored by the shards of light dancing on the tide.

The waves slap gently against the boat, moving in tandem with Moomintroll’s heartbeat. He sways back and forth, back and forth; Snufkin doesn’t move an inch, still as a doll. His gaze is lost to the sea.

They’re stuck together, alone, for the first time in seven years.

Moomintroll looks at him, fully.

Snufkin is...old, that much is visible. 

His gown, Moomintroll sees the color fully now: it’s browned and could’ve been a green at some point; the gold trimmings are of fern and tulips; on the right, a large gold outline of a flower blooms up and over his pocket. The texture looks scratchy and uncomfortable, but Snufkin takes solace in odd fabrics anyway.

His hat is still the same. It’s got a meadow saffron pinned to it.

In bits and pieces, this is Snufkin. He still twitches his whiskers when a salted smell hits his nose. He still folds his paws into the indent of his lap. The tips of his boots still twitch, because his claws make him uncomfortable but they grow like weeds and can only be squashed into the shoe’s tip.

This used to be _his_ Snufkin, once upon a time. Just painted, glossed, tarnished over by a lifetime he tread without Moomintroll, outside of his reach. Unwritten letters, unspoken words; a terrible smell of earth and an abandoned home hits Moomin’s nostrils.

He feels a terrible taste in the back of his mouth. He turns away.

At last, even the gummed-up quiet stirs Snufkin from his thoughts.

“Care to give me a little tour?” he asks Moomintroll, peeking over. “This is your home, isn’t it? I’m sure you have more knowledge about it than I do — and I know you love to speak about what you know.”

Moomintroll, instinctively, scoffs. “Is that meant to be endearing?”

Snufkin gives a playful side-eye. “Only an offer. I’ve only had my own voice for company these past months. I’d adore yours very much.”

Moomintroll blissfully glosses over that one.

“Well, I’m not my father,” he warns. “But I’ll try to talk as much as I can.”

Snufkin gives a sort of widespread gesture with his arms, as if to imply, _Go on, then._

The stage is his; Moomintroll stands only a tinge as to not rock the boat so severely, and he covers his eyes to stare out at the blips of land amongst the blue.

“Well,” he begins, pointing to his west. “You see that tall shadow that way? That’s the lighthouse. It’s...a bit old, not really in use anymore.” He dismisses this. “It’s fine, we don’t get many visitors. I’ve never heard anything crash up on the rocks.”

Snufkin is attentive, kindly staring out to where Moomintroll’s finger guides him.

“We have our own light posts,” Moomin goes on. “We usually put them on before supper, to guide the ghosts on their paths. Plenty of them will walk on these waters — I think there’s something below the surface, like a...city or something. That’s what the kids wish to believe, anyway.”

“I can believe that,” Snufkin agrees. “I’d like to.”

“If there is one,” Moomintroll says, “it’s certainly too big to be anything useful now.”

Snufkin keeps his gaze on the unmoving silhouette, studying it. “So there’s no lighthouse keeper?” he inquires.

Moomintroll shakes his head. “No, no, there is. He’s more of a gambler, though, I play cards with him on weekends.”

“I see.”

“He’s got his lanthorn turned into a game room, and we all place our meals in the center of the table and bargain them in place of chips. We’ll play bridge and poker and rummy and dance under the lanterns...oh, Snufkin, it’s wonderful, and the neighbors make the best liquor, I’ll have to—”

Moomintroll stops himself. He almost offered to invite him.

By luck is Snufkin so enamored with the scape that Moomintroll painted for him; he’s glazed over imagining it all, and he’s deeply pleased.

“That does sound quite nice,” he admits wistfully. “I haven’t had a decent buddy for cards in much too long.”

Moomintroll coughs, moving on.

“Over…that way,” Moomintroll points northwest, “that’s Helene and her wife, Freya. Kid doctors, actually! So that’s helpful.”

“Oh, they were the first island I’d gotten lost on,” Snufkin admits, looking a tad embarrassed. “The Hemulen and fillyjonk, yes? They tapped my knee with some tool.”

Moomintroll chuckles. “And how were your reflexes?”

“Is that what they wanted to know?” Snufkin sniffs. “Hardly any of their business. But they did give me a lollipop for my time.”

“Yes,” Moomin murmurs absently, his gaze adrift.

He looks to the island of buzzing hattifatteners which attracts flotsam to its shores, where he and the children will venture to scavenge for interesting bits of debris and return with fur pricked up on all the wrong ends, and the tang of sulfur beneath their tongues.

And then there’s the land, straight north. Arching canyons which welcome large ships into the heart of a harbor, a small town with moss on its rooftops and bright-colored houses, where the market is overrun with travelling shopkeepers every weekend. Where Moomintroll will go and collect the food and supplies he cannot make himself, and where he links with fellow vagabonds to share stories and advice.

So much of his world that he could present to Snufkin, in a sort of comically-proud pose that Pappa would pull when he’s captivated by his own tales. He could let him know the stories he missed out on, and they could fall back into knowing each other again.

The stories are just stones in his throat.

Snufkin doesn’t seem as tetchy as Moomin about the silence, seeming to take it as a good thing. He leans over the boat with crossed arms, humming little things under his breath with no strings attached to the tune; just something to entertain himself.

“You ought to travel again,” Snufkin says briskly.

“I’ve thought about it,” Moomintroll admits, as this is a safe ground to tread with him. “It’d have to be in winter, when the children are hibernating. But...Winnie and Madge and Fjarille, they don’t like hibernating, so I’d have to take them along.”

“I’m sure Moominmamma or Moominpappa could watch them,” Snufkin says — and before Moomintroll figures out why he’s riled up about _that_ nugget of balderdash Snufkin inquires, “Have you got any plans to go west?”

“You mean the Americas?” Moomintroll near shudders. “No, never.”

Snufkin nods in understanding. “I don’t blame you, there isn’t much to see.”

“You’ve been?”

“I’ve just heard.”

“Ah.”

The conversation loses its luster like pulling at a loose thread in a blanket, till all that’s left is string. Moomintroll feels that itch of awkward tremble on the tips of his fur, where dew is collecting from the mist.

“Oh!” Feeling dumb, Moomintroll suddenly recalls the whole reason they’re out here. “The bag, at your feet. Give it to me, please.”

Snufkin does.

Moomintroll quickly takes out a small weathered bell that he can hook onto his fishing pole like bait. The boat temporarily rattles as he shuffles to exhume the contents of his tackle bag, hastily trying not to look foolish.

“A sea-bell?” Snufkin inquires, mouth lopsided with confusion.

“Yeah,” Moomintroll expertly flings the line out with enough force so it doesn’t snag on his tail this time. Once settled into the water, he shakes his fishing pole to give it a few good rings beneath the surface.

“You know that only scares the fish, right?”

“I _know,_ ” Moomin sighs in exasperation. “I’m not fishing. I’m calling someone.”

“Oh!” Snufkin strains his ear to listen to the underwater tune — although Moomintroll and him know it’s pointless, sea-bells cannot be heard by land-dwellers — Moomin can’t blame him for the inane curiosity of what it sounds like.

“She ought to be here by now,” Moomintroll wonders aloud, still ringing the bell.

“She?” Snufkin blinks.

Before Moomintroll can reply, a familiar tug arches the pole downwards, ringing in confirmation.

Both men go stark silent as a section of the water dips oddly, like carving a shape out of gelatin. There are dispatched splashes and foam which follow suit of the indent, then a garbly trill renowned of a sea critter.

Snufkin knits his brows together, looking extremely puzzled at the scenario before him. Moomintroll, meanwhile, smiles at the water-hole with the velveteen kindness of greeting an old friend.

“Morning, Nori,” Moomintroll says. “Or, good noon, more like? Sorry that I’m so late. But I have your cakes just as you like them!”

A feminine chirp bounces through the air, rocking gently against the boat, and by her perked voice Moomintroll knows she’s smiling.

“An invisible mermaid!” Snufkin’s eyes gleam with surprise, but keeps his volume as low as he can manage.

Moomintroll ignores his revelation to pass over the bundle of sea-cakes, and feels the press of cupped hands grab for them. They’re lifted down into the water by the unforeseen girl, vanishing beneath the dark water as she cusps it.

“You’re very welcome,” Moomintroll nods, interpreting the silence how he pleases. “Have a good day, if you can!”

Suddenly there’s a tap on his boat right as he makes to retreat; Moomintroll pauses.

“Oh?” he looks back to the absent space. “Is something wrong?”

Nori makes an indecipherable noise, which sounds like she’s considering something aimless. Abruptly the dip of water vanishes and Moomin hears the frantic swishing of a diving fin, going down and down into the abyss.

“Huh,” he murmurs. “I guess she’s getting something?”

Snufkin peeks down so deeply the tip of his nose almost touches the water. Moomintroll looks on his display of wonder and can’t help being so fond of it.

“It makes sense, of course, that merfolk can go invisible just as anyone else,” Snufkin finally says, face still nearly-submerged. “I just hadn’t thought about it before!”

Moomintroll nods. “I hadn’t either. Too-Ticky was the one that found her.”

“Is she alright?” Snufkin asks.

Hesitating, Moomintroll shakes his head slightly. “Poor thing had her arms caught up in sailor’s netting, so she’s only got two now,” he explains mournfully. “And...Too-Ticky thinks she isn’t from these waters. But because of the odd canal, she can’t find her way back.”

“She’s got two arms?” Snufkin looks confused.

“She ought to have four,” Moomin says. “I know, it’s strange. But Too-Ticky said some people are just used to different things than us.”

Snufkin hums.

The water splits again, and out pops a new floating mass of something green being thrust enthusiastically into Moomintroll’s boat — in his defense the something green looks an awful lot like a sea monsters of sorts, so he feels right to be shocked enough to yell at it.

Nori appears to wait patiently for his response, as the placement where her tail should be beneath flaps with tiny waves.

It takes a moment to process what the odd thing is — first off it’s braided, and also very slimy. The material, though, is almost neurotically familiar.

Snufkin voices this notion aloud. “Seaweed?”

Moomintroll reaches down to grab the corners of the bundle, raising it up for a gander. The odd thing drops from his fingers to the floor and wedges between himself and Snufkin like a curtain — only thin shards of the other side pierce through what seems to be a covering. Through it, Moomintroll catches one golden eye of Snufkin, who seems to come to the same revelation as him.

It’s a sort of covering. A quilt, maybe?

Moomin realizes very quickly and with a suppressed wince that Nori might be expecting him to wear this.

“Oh!” he folds a lip, fishing for the right compliments — pun intended. “Oh, it’s...it’s lovely! Yes, and it looks so...cozy.”

Nori makes a very content chitter at that. She sounds relieved.

“Thank you,” Moomin sets down the atrocious blanket and hears the wet, gross slap of it hitting the boat’s floor. “That’s...very kind of you.”

She replies in merfolk language — it sounds fluent and sweet, a skillful calligraphy of the tongue, and it’s a shame Moomintroll can’t understand a lick of it.

He clumsily bids her adieu, hoping that her words were one of departure; Nori gives her own goodbye and Moomin hears the flip of her delving back into the water for good.

The seaweed hits his toes and he makes a pinched groan of disgust, which seems to greatly amuse Snufkin to the point of a small chuckle.

Moomintroll blinks at him. “What?”

Snufkin’s eyes glitter like sun-kissed waters. “You hate that blanket, don’t you?”

Moomin feels prickled, suddenly, and almost protests this when he stops to watch Snufkin’s palm ride up to his cheek, resting his face to have him admire the troll with a sort of goofy, lax grin.

He doesn’t like that. He _shouldn’t_ , at least.

So, Moomintroll turns away, allowing the flat ears and embarrassed grumble to be his reply and letting Snufkin interpret that however he pleases.

As he rows, he spots the makings of the nearby shorelines peeking through the grey hair of the clouds. Straight ahead leads to the private berry bushes, and convenience strikes.

“Would you be opposed to berry-picking?” Moomintroll asks. “It won’t be long, it’s just that— the children love their jam, see, and I’m fresh out, and...I’ll need it done by lunch, so I ought to…”

His words peter out, dropping like anchors into the thick of the water.

Snufkin, though, approves with a nod. “I’d like to, yes. Do you know where to find some?”

“There’s a good spot straight ahead, actually,” he points to showcase. “It’s private property, but...well, I never get caught anyway.”

His friend’s eyes gleam. “Oh, yes. Stolen berries are _much_ tastier.”

“I knew you’d agree,” Moomintroll says, daring a smile. “So it’s settled?”

“ _Well,_ ” Snufkin teases, “if you’re going to twist my arm about it.”

* * *

They dock the boat on the thin shoreline and make their way inwards to a small collection of greenery, speckled amongst the surmounting cliffs. The land is full of wizened crannies and deep shelves of life tucked into the sides of the island; Moomintroll has wondered before if this is a sort of old volcano and that explains the angle of everything.

He leads Snufkin cleverly into the spruce trees till they arrive at a small clearing stippled with orange, ripened cloudberries. The musky, adorning smell hits them like running into a curtain.

“Oh, cloudberries,” Snufkin notes aloud, frowning. “Shouldn’t they be out of season?”

Moomintroll readies his impromptu berry-basket: a copper tackle box, recently emptied. Since Snufkin hadn’t the means to bring his luggage aboard, Moomin offered a creel in substitute — for courtesy’s sake, it’s much larger than Moomin’s own basket.

“Yes, this batch is odd,” Moomintroll agrees. “The children have come to their own conclusions about why that is. Actually, we found a large outline of some weird circle around the area! It might be a rune of sorts.”

“A witch’s garden,” Snufkin surmises. “You suppose that’s who owns the property?”

Moomin shrugs. “Never bothered me either way. Witch or hemul or fillyjonk, they’re all being robbed of good berries.”

“That is true…” Snufkin looks around, unsure of where to start. There is certainly an abundance of them, fresh for the taking; Moomintroll remembers the summer that everyone’s bellies were sick from indulgence.

“I’ll start here,” Moomintroll decides, choosing the farthest end of the patch. “We’ll meet in the middle.”

“Alright,” Snufkin says, walking to his designated corner.

For what feels like both hours upon hours and also five minutes, the two harvest in a quiet Moomintroll can’t interpret as companionable or stiff.

There are no fond recollections with Snufkin that bloom amongst the bushes; Moomintroll can recall the pawful of times he’s brought his children here, promising to bake as many pies as the berries they picked would allow. Strawberry juice phantomly resides on his tongue, upon remembering those hot days.

“Moomintroll,” Snufkin calls behind him.

Moomin turns.

“Erm,” the other looks wide-eyed — and red with a very embarrassed expression, one that doesn’t seem to fit on his face. “It’s just...you’ve got moss on your back.”

Moomintroll stares at him queerly. “I live by the sea,” he says. “Of course I’d have moss on my back.”

Snufkin looks away. “Yes, I— Well…”

“Did you just now notice?” Moomintroll asks incredulously.

“ _No,_ ” he blushes harder. “I just didn’t know when else to bring it up…”

Okay.

“And you’ve got mushrooms growing on your pack,” Moomintroll rebuttals. “So there.”

Snufkin perks up. “Do I? Hm, I have been near many bogs…”

“That’s nice,” Moomintroll examines his fill, surprised to see that he’s picked so many berries without realizing they’re nearly kissing the brim of the box. “How much more do you want to pick?”

Glancing over, he sees that Snufkin’s creel isn’t even at the halfway mark.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Snufkin hedges. “However many you’d like.”

“Right,” Moomin sighs. “Carry on then.”

The treacherous silence picks up where it left off. Moomintroll thinks of Fjarille, now. She was little when he first discovered this neck of the island, and with her nestled to his front in a cloth it was adorable when she reached her paws towards the ground, babbling with joy at the discovery.

Cloudberries were always special to her because of that, Moomintroll thinks. She didn’t eat them in pies or jam like the other kids, rather picks them raw and will sometimes not even look to see if she’d accidentally uprooted a leaf or twig, spitting it out thoughtlessly.

 _Would she be upset with me for bringing him here?_ Moomin suddenly frets. _Is this something that’s special to her?_

He can’t follow up on that; Snufkin makes a small noise that captures his attention like the cry of a wounded child.

“Snufkin?” Moomintroll looks up to see...

The basket has dropped to the floor, scattering the berries at his boots. Snufkin is clutching his arms, managing a tight swallow that moves his neck. He looks very pale, he looked like that when…

“Snufkin,” Moomintroll restrains the urge to shake the panic out of him, feeling a blind rise of horror in himself. He walks forward. “What’s the matter?”

His response is a tight shake of the head, then a steadying breath, and then a quiet, “Look.”

Moomin follows Snufkin’s stare to where it’s locked on something pure-white at the foot of a tree.

Right at the roots of the bushes lies a moth. Its delicate body shakes in the wind, and Moomintroll notices that the little wings are stiff as cardboard. Its legs are not planted firm on the ground at all; it’s waiting to be whisked away.

“It’s dead.” Snufkin has rallied his posture once more to its normally-collected stance. But he still sounds flat.

Moomintroll kneels down; when he flicks at the wings the body rolls over, and he sees with a sting that the legs have curled into the abdomen.

“You’re right,” Moomintroll murmurs, tone somber. “It’s a dead moth. Poor thing.”

“Pear-tree swallowtail,” Snufkin says. “...I wonder how it got all the way out here.”

Moomintroll stares at it; the wind will surely rip the mite to pieces, if it stays out any longer.

With light fingers, he reaches forward and captures the butterfly in his palms, gently caressing it to his chest.

“What are you doing?” Snufkin sounds mildly appalled.

“I’ll put it among the poppies,” Moomintroll explains. He dares to press a fingertip to the wing, stroking lightly. “It should have a cozy burial there.”

“You’re really going to bury it?” Now he sounds accusatory.

“Yes?” Moomintroll challenges. “What about it?”

Snufkin shakes his head. “It’s too small.”

“It doesn’t matter how small it is,” Moomintroll snaps. “ _Or_ how long it lived. It was there, and it _mattered._ It flew all the way out here to just sit on my island and die and you are _damn_ well going to respect whatever life it had!”

Snufkin flinches away. His expression heated, but relenting, thankfully.

Moomintroll walks back to where he’d left his basket. “Come on, then,” he calls over, brisk. “A quick funeral and we’ll ready the boat.”

He thinks he hears Snufkin comply with a noise of sorts, but he isn’t sure over the screeches of the gulls, circling overhead.

* * *

With the butterfly laid to rest among the poppies, Snufkin made a beeline for the top of the cliff and hasn’t returned since.

Moomintroll has to ready himself to face him again, electing to stay at the burial site until the hurt of the dead white moth stops prodding at the hurt he already has. He’s not that young anymore, he should be old and experienced and better than this.

So Moomintroll, at last, approaches Snufkin where he sits at the peak. He’s wary, as though confronting a scared animal.

He sees the shoulderblades from beneath the cloth, taut and much too sharp. The wind bellows through his stringy hair and falls around him in wisps, his braid batting against the side of his face.

Silence, too, is a language; it ebbs and flows with the tide right below their legs, subtly breathing: there’s a murmur beneath the surface, a myriad of sediment, unspoken.

Moomintroll turns to his companion, relearning him every time: there’s a speck of gold looped in Snufkin’s one ear, and he remembers the summer Snorkmaiden gave that piercing to him. The hole got infected, Moominmamma had to flush it out.

He’s playing with a string of yarn that Moomin knows he always keeps in his pocket, so his paws are as busy as his mind. Moomintroll absently watches him make a star-shaped symbol, then a one-player cat’s cradle.

At last, Moomintroll sighs. Feeling tired.

“What are you doing here, Snufkin.”

There’s an absence beneath Snufkin’s eyes, that he’s carried from the berry bushes to the cliff; gold reflects in his pupils, aimless, from the sunlight, and yet it doesn’t sparkle.

Snufkin stills his paws, stuffing away the string. His throat bobs.

“I had to come back,” is his answer. “I knew it was time to.”

“Glad you finally came around,” Moomintroll says icily. “She shouldn’t have had to wait for you.”

“No, I…. Why didn’t you send an address?” He has the gall to sound hurt. _He_ sounds _hurt._ “I wanted to visit.”

“Never showed any interest before,” Moomintroll sniffs. “And you’re doing it again.”

“Doing...what?”

“Deflecting.”

Snufkin gives a sort of small exhale through his nose, mimicking laughter. His fingertips rub together, as though they’re missing something, and he’s looking around.

Moomintroll, with pity, hands off a long blade of grass to him, and Snufkin murmurs a thank you before clasping it between his lips, seeming calmer.

“I have a family now,” Moomin says. “I’m not going to do this again.”

Snufkin just twiddles the grass in his thumb and forefinger, staring straight ahead.

Moomintroll sits down; even inches apart, the short distance between them burns hot and bright.

“You can stay,” he murmurs, nearing a spit. “You know you can, you’ve always known. But it’s...this is different, I think you know that too.”

He speaks at last: “I do.”

Moomintroll empties a sigh. “You’ll need to leave eventually.”

“I will.”

“I need you to promise me,” Moomintroll’s voice warbles, but he remains firm. “You can’t hurt her, Snufkin. After all that’s been done… You know that, don’t you?”

“I…” His black ears go flat. “Yes.”

That wasn’t the answer he wanted, Moomintroll knows that. He knows that Snufkin knows that, too. Because this Snufkin _used_ to know him, what he needed in these moments. His lack of providing speaks volumes, whether he wants them to or not.

And yet...Moomintroll is still hurt by this. Even when he’s older and wiser. Even when he has better people to fall back to— and children who _need_ him.

He stands up.

“Let’s get back to the boat,” Moomintroll murmurs.

Snufkin nods, casting his grass strand to the wind. He keeps his eyes locked under the rim of his hat.

 _Snorkmaiden’s letter should be done by now,_ Moomin thinks, and he looks beyond him to where his home rests. _That’s good. That’s something._

Above them, the clouds are as thick as eiderdown, pulling closer to the earth. And below them, the hurricane lamp Moomintroll keeps on the post begins to cast a small glow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can u guess what the flower on snufkin's hat means. can u.


	5. the nine of swords

_The days after were a conglomerate of excitement, which rippled through the valley in haste. It’s hardly whispered among close friends so much as announced and yelled and cooed over. The world can’t seem to get enough out of that phrase —_ there’s a baby on the way.

_‘About times’ and ‘congratulations’ and everything else that were almost those phrases but not quite were exchanged endlessly. Mamma and Pappa vowed to make all the baby’s necessities and to not lift a paw, and similar promises were made regarding comfortable clothes for Snufkin and promises to fork over as many copies of parenting books as needed (Moomintroll never took Fillyjonk up on that offer, though)._

_And then, after that, comes the wait._

_The problem is, Snufkin being a hodgepodge of different cultures and species forbade any certainty on what came next. Little My and Mymble both concurred that mymble pregnancies are three months at maximum and seven weeks at minimum. Books informed them that mumriken pregnancy is six months. Moomin pregnancies, Moomintroll knew, lasted a year._

_So there was already an odd gap of ‘when’s being smudged together to form a very dicey answer. Obviously Snufkin’s winter travels will be delayed — which Moomintroll had to assure him throughout, as the claustrophobia Snufkin had was expected to be a problem._

_No worries, Moominhouse will just not hibernate this year! They will simply stay awake for as long as needed._

_But what if you fall asleep and I can’t wake you back up? Snufkin grew taut and pinched with panic. What then?_

_Safe to say, there was just…always something to worry about._

_Moomintroll, once, looked down to see their paws were entwined, and the constant weight he felt pressed against his side was Snufkin, looking elsewhere while their lives continued._

_How long had they been this close? Moomintroll wasn’t sure if they ever stopped touching or holding paws, in that eternity of months. He couldn’t recall any absence, and surely there’d be a noticeable gap if they weren’t side-by-side, battling this together._

_As became customary, amongst the clutter of voices and faces and new bright things and ideas being shoved into his peripherals every waking moment — at the end of that, Moomintroll found Snufkin tucked away and they rested in this little alcove of time they carved._

_The rest was impermanent, now, and came at odd intervals of life. Privacy was something Moomintroll never minded the absence of, but he was beginning to see the marvels of fleeing the hills for a season._

_This memory was on a summer night that was oddly chilly. Moomintroll remembers Snufkin being very sore a lot, but especially that night, so he was able to shovel coal into the tile stove without Snufkin insisting he could do that himself._

_The Ancestor had crawled out once Moomintroll batted the stove a certain way with a broomstick; they were nestled at Snufkin’s side and curled up tight with soot emanating off their every breath like jumpy fleas._

_At Snufkin’s crossed legs sat his miniature readings set, consisting of his placemat and crystals for recharging, a few bunches of herbs and strewn colored candles. He was furiously shuffling his tarot for a good minute longer than needed._

_“You’re going to worry yourself sick again, dear,” Moomin chided._

_Snufkin didn’t look up, just continued cutting the cards, impaling deck upon deck, and Moomin saw in brief stillness of the paws how he was shaking._

_“Dear,” he repeated, more solemn._

_“I’ll only be a minute,” Snufkin sounded distracted, his mind a thousand coils of rope pulling him a thousand different directions._

_Moomintroll empathized greatly, shrouding the distance left between them until he was stitched back into Snufkin’s side again. Moomin’s paws rummaged their way to where he knew Snufkin got constant aches: the ridge right along his spine, especially where his tail sprouted._

_As Snufkin worked through his steadfast routine, Moomintroll rubbed along his backside till the other sprung up, just a touch. Melding into wherever his digits lead, mapping out the aches._

_“Is this good?” Moomintroll asked gently._

_Snufkin’s eyes fluttered a bit, till he released a steady breath. “Yes,” he whispered. He sounded much calmer, his spine going lax under Moomintroll’s knowing fingers._

_Those clever fingers continued their trail up and down the pebbles of the taut backside, and Moomintroll was proud to hear the purr that was elicited out of it, slowly emerging from the thick of Snufkin’s chest._

_“I’m going to be very disgusting soon,” Snufkin remarked to no one in particular; his expression grew curled with malice at the consideration._

_Moomintroll was much too blind with affection to truly help. Instead he supplied, “You’re going to be as handsome as ever. Quit fussing, do you need anything else?”_

_“I’m fine,” Snufkin said._

(He won’t learn until later that these types of reassurances didn’t help at all.)

_“Those cards do nothing but get your tail in a twist,” Moomin scolded softly. “They better be telling you to get some rest.”_

_“Let me finish this up, then,” Snufkin conceded._

_Moomintroll still exhaled with disapproval, but knew that this was as far into the matter that he could press Snufkin, and that any more prodding would batten down his mood._

_It was much too late for either to argue long, there was work to do in the morning._

_They pressed against each other with an exhale shared between them like a cigarette. There was no noise but the crackling of firewood, the beatings of their hearts._

_(When Moomintroll awoke after a hazy nap, he heard what seemed to be a discontented, throaty noise. His eyes were fuzzy and all he could see were flames, Snufkin’s shaking paw, and the card of a tower in agony.)_

* * *

Upon arrival, Moomintroll sees Snorkmaiden’s letter placed with a cold cup of tea at the table, waiting for him.

Snufkin retreated to his tent the moment the boat touched the old dock, so Moomintroll is (thankfully) relieved of keeping him from seeing the letter for now. Only the children are present, hovering it over as they hadn’t dared to investigate without Moomin’s narration of it.

Dozens of eager eyes lean into Moomintroll as he theatrically reads off the tinseled calligraphy like he’s behind a lectern, gleeful himself for the distraction and update of his best friend:

_Dearest Moomintroll,_

_As grotty it is to reach out so late, let me assure you that your letter was well received and greatly appreciated! I eagerly await to hear of little Fjarille’s birthday activities (although I still demand compensation, I understand that she was ‘toddler-age’ but that was still a very expensive bag— I still haven’t been able to remove the jam stains.)_

_My travels have led me to a mysterious and dapper gentleman, of all places. He’s shown me the marvels of factory work although I myself wouldn’t dare touch the likes of it. Still, he has been kind to embed me into his will. And we have spent many a pleasurable nights—_

“I’m not reading this part,” Moomintroll says.

“Keep going,” Posey insists, as her idolization of Snorkmaiden will _not_ be discouraged.

Blah, blah, blah, off she rambles about her latest romantic endeavors which Moomintroll could care less about. Then an aspiring poet she butted heads with until she, too, was swooned by Snorkmaiden enough to court her, and by this point Moomin’s eyes were rolled back into his skull.

Still, he reads this all out for the children, even when he’s forced to gloss over the raunchier details.

 _Finally,_ five paragraphs in and Snorkmaiden stops bragging about her lovelife to change the subject.

 _I do appreciate your concern on my whereabouts, but believe you me there is nothing a woman like myself desires more than a suitcase of treasures and an independent agenda! The road is calling and so I must answer it._ (oh that is SO tacky) _So, unfortunately for you and perhaps I, there shall be no return address for you to rely upon until I am confident that whichever home I settle in is the right one._

_In any case, regarding houses, my brother and I united last week for luncheon! It was a pain in the arse, as always, to draw him from his study, but I assure you through grit and triumph I have managed to gather that he, too, is doing well. (How any snork can stand minimal sunlight and a stagnant interest in romance is beyond me, but Snork has always been quite the pioneer.)_

_Anyhow, your name popped up somewhere during the meet, and in unison we decided our best option of mutual leisure was a quick stop at your island before—_

“WHAT?!?”

Every child is startled tenfold by their father’s shout which geysers to the ceiling. They stare wide-eyed at Moomintroll, slapping his forehead and looking traumatized.

“What’s wrong??” Posey cries in alarm.

Skiffle, from hir seat with arms crossed, gives an unamused sniff. Having memorized the letter cover to cover ze says, “She’s coming to visit.”

“She is??” Everyone jumps up immediately with delight. “Snorkmaiden is coming!!”

Moomintroll feels a heavy thud in the pit of his stomach. His gaze deters from his friend’s cursive to the window beside Madge’s piano. The patchy-green ridgeline of Snufkin’s tent shows from the outside.

“When will she be here?” someone asks, but Moomin isn’t focused on who.

Skiffle answers, again, for him. “She didn’t specify. But she mentioned her brother and some ‘underwater contraption’ they would use.”

“A submarine,” Madge guesses.

“Maybe…”

Moomintroll musters the courage to trudge onwards, as though nothing earth-shattering has just occurred.

He reads aloud on the remainder of Snorkmaiden’s homily, consisting of smaller stories of the lives she’s lead or watch others lead. She speaks fondly of her pet and the former ones who have passed, and she remarks at one point that she hopes Moomintroll will give Alicia her regards, if he’s able to, as her home is tucked away in a forest no mailman can reach.

(That is _extremely_ underhanded of her and one of the worst excuses she’s ever had, but Moomintroll has seen the weight of Snorkmaiden being the valley’s mediator in regards to interpersonal affairs. And he knows better than to barge in unannounced, not until she’s ready.)

She concludes haphazardly by saying that a mouse has started nibbling on her machinery and will soon end their connection, but she is very excited to see him again. _Whenever that may be._

Moomin’s kids chatter amongst themselves happily; despite Snorkmaiden’s poorly-veiled disinterest in children that doesn’t stop her from gaining popularity among them.

Moomintroll wishes he could be excited, too. It _has_ been a long time since she’s wanted to visit, and oh how he _desperately_ just wants to enjoy a brandy with her and talk about their little adventures or the in-betweens. He misses her voice, he just misses _her._

But now…

Now the only thing he can do is cross his fingers that Snufkin leaves long before Snorkmaiden gets her paws on him.

* * *

Snufkin stays.

Snufkin stays for a week. Two weeks. Three weeks, now. Soon it will be a month.

Moomintroll watches those days, from a distance. He’s let Snufkin fester like a wild plant among his home, now. It’s too late to nip him off now, without much resistance. What is he even supposed to say, anyway? He’d been the one to shelter him, this was _his_ fault, and now it’s out of his paws because he can’t just be _rude_ and boot him off the island, not when the children adore him so.

Though Snufkin isn’t _comfortable,_ per se; he still has a barrier around him that Moomin can’t bother to hammer down. But he hears his voice more often, speaking to the kids in the sitting-room or outside instructing them on how to tie a knot, or something of the sort. He tells fun little stories that don’t mean anything at all, pertaining to constellations or the myths forged from centuries.

Moomintroll notes that Snufkin seems careful not to go into depth on where he’s been or what he’s done.

He’s also noted that Fjarille goes missing whenever Snufkin enters a room.

And Moomin knows, he _knows_ that any encounter between them would be a temporary, weak balm against the wounds Snufkin’s carved. Worse yet, they might pry open entirely, deep like canyons, slicing little Fjarille’s poor heart in half.

This unspoken compromise between them isn’t helping matters.

Gasoline has been splashed onto his insides and there is little he can do to maneuver around in everyday normalcy; only the tiniest of flames could engulf him completely. And it’s...it’s very hard to live like that.

He’s lived like that once. The year of Fjarille’s birth.

He can’t do it again.

* * *

The soupy sunlight above him peers through the veil of thick fog, of which still has refused to budge and is now beginning to interpose with the crops’ wellness. It’s been this way since Fjarille’s birthday.

Cold will be coming in soon. _Actual_ cold, the one that you can only find at sea. It’ll coil round Moomintroll’s head like a tightening band of clothing and he will be forced to consider his winter options. Things are different on the island than in the valley, after all.

For now he just provides what he can.

Cleaning day leads Moomintroll to the rooftops where he sets out all the dirty dishes he can squeeze along the tiles. He, naturally, becomes cornered a few times, and perhaps two glasses have been lost in the escapade. But he’s certainly not going to buy a dishwasher anytime soon, nor a maid, and he’s been scrubbing at the house all _day._ Moominmamma never wasted her time on frivolous matters, either; why should he?

Once he starts distributing dish soap, for when the rain hits, Moomin hears the clamber of a ladder being used.

“Thought I’d find you up here,” Madge says kindly.

“Watch your step,” Moomintroll advises.

Her ticky feet are nimble like a feline’s gait, hopping around in a spectacularly impressive fashion. At last Madge reaches her foster parent and remains humbly smug.

“Laundry day again?” she says. “I could have helped.”

“You’ve done enough,” Moomintroll answers softly. “Keep taking my responsibilities and there won’t be any left!”

“But I’m very good at it,” she insists.

Moomintroll agrees with that.

She perches herself atop the chimney without a hitch, bringing her knees up and rummaging for something in her other pocket.

Moomin leaves her for a bit to align the plates, stuffing the crusty silverware into the big stock pot and squirting a bit of soap atop the pile.

Ambling across the field of saucers, he reaches Madge’s sitting spot and leans hard against the chimney-wall, feeling his spine complain against the bricks.

He smells smoke, and looking up Moomintroll nearly topples backwards when he sees a puff of rancid-smelling grey shooting from Madge’s lips, escaping from her exhale.

“My word!!” he exclaims in horror.

Madge, twisting her cigarette, peeks over. “What’s wrong?”

“I— you’re— what are you DOING??” 

“Smoking.”

“You are a _child!_ ” Moomin rebukes. “You spit that out this _instant!_ ”

Madge stares at him for a long while, eyebrows raised.

“I’m nineteen,” she says.

Her words pelt him like bullets. “You’re _what?_ ”

“You never asked my age,” she shrugs coolly. “I thought you guessed and that’s why we never talked about it.”

Moomintroll’s head spins.

That...makes sense, in hindsight. Her voice is deeper than the other children, and she’s got feathers, umber-brown, and like Too-Ticky’s they’ve started packing onto her arm like fur. She’s gotten hairier and stockier, but Moomintroll always chalked that up to Madge simply being Madge; the years alluded him altogether.

If he had time to think about it, that would chase the breath right out of his lungs like a punch— children and their growing-up isn't easy to digest at _all_.

“I…” Moomintroll gathers his composure again, feeling stricken. “Just please don’t do it in the house. It stains the wallpaper.”

“Of course,” Madge complies, and continues smoking.

Moomintroll looks up; he desperately craves rain, he’s running out of clean plates and the sea-salt he has to boil for his garden is so tedious.

(Of course the moment Snorkmaiden arrives she’ll wish for a tour, and _then_ the downpour will soil her fur and coats and she’ll have a fit about it. Even when she doesn’t have to display that part of herself anymore, even though she doesn’t have to try around him. He’s seen her plenty a-times caked with mud and laughing hysterically against the wind.)

Suddenly the earth appears to rumble, as though on the verge of a sort of language; both father and foster daughter perk up at the same time, then locate the source quickly as the tuning of an instrument.

“Who’s playing?” Madge asks.

Somehow, Moomin knows already.

“It’s a lute,” he tells her. “He’s always been talented with strings…”

Madge gives a noncommittal sort of hum, of which is too murky and loose to properly analyze. Moomintroll bets it isn’t anything complimentary, whatever she’s thinking.

Well. It’s hard to argue that Snufkin’s _isn’t_ musically-gifted. His songs would waft through the valley on good days, braiding the tranquil wind with the hum of everyone’s featherdown joy. On bad days the tune would drag and it would ache in all the right ways.

Leering down, Moomin spots the white slope of Snufkin’s bare shoulder, showing an ink of a four-leaf clover and the fiery strings of a comet. He can’t recall if he’s seen those tattoos before they stopped talking or if it’s such a non-surprise that Snufkin attained them while he was gone that he isn’t entranced by their appearance.

Either way. He’s more disappointed that he can’t watch Snufkin’s fingers; they’re so clever on the strings, in the way he can’t be with his harmonica. It’s like watching Moominmamma weaving something new, her movements rehearsed.

Madge listens in for a bit, too. Her featherdown ears twitch at the music. It’s a bit unlike Snufkin’s previous songs in a way Moomintroll can’t quite explain.

“You loved him, right?” Madge lists over, once Snufkin begins to strum and hone out the hollow plucks of the lute.

Moomintroll answers, “I did.”

“But not anymore.”

“Y...well,” Moomin toils on this, feeling uncomfortable. “Not like I did. I’m not sure...I haven’t considered it.”

Madge watches him.

“He’s hurt a lot of people he loves,” Moomintroll fights to keep his tone steady. “But it’s the little pieces— it’s the moments you _think_ he’s changed, and that he’s ready to love and be loved…those pieces were enough for me, until…”

The air reeks with blood and fluid and stale, sweaty bedsheets.

Moomintroll straightens up, remembering his audience. “What happened between us is private, my dear,” he says gently. “It ought to be kept out of children’s paws, I don’t think it’s fair to put that onto you. None of it is your fault.”

Madge says, “I never thought it was.”

Moomin attempts a smile. “You’re very kind, Madge. I hope you know that - you’re practically grown!”

“Oh, I know,” she says frankly, enough to make Moomintroll laugh.

“And so humble, too!”

Madge grins and takes a long drag of her cigarette, much to Moomin’s great dismay.

“Don’t stay out on the roof too long,” he tells her. “I can’t see you from up here.”

“I’ll be careful,” Madge says.

“I know, but…”

Her eyes soften. “I’ll be down in a bit.”

“Thank you.”

With Snufkin’s song forging on, Moomintroll goes back inside, mindful to be quiet as to not disturb the craftsman at his work.

* * *

The days drag on and _still_ not a drop of rain emerges. Even when the sky is so bloated with grey and seeming to burst; the world goes quiet waiting for the downpour.

Moomin watches the weather now; it’s much too cold to go outside so most children are nestled indoors for the warmth. He hears the gramophone crackling from the living room with one of Skiffle’s swing tunes playing. Looking over he sees hir accompanied by Genevieve on the floor drawing with a cluster of crayons strewn about.

He’s in the kitchen, and Snufkin is, too. Behind him at the table, his glasses perched on the very ends of his nose to make him look a bit silly. But his spine is straight and his eyes are locked downwards, toying with his tarot deck. The quartz he charges his set with is right beside the glass of water Moomintroll provided him, creating iridescent slices of light along the tablecloth.

The Woodies, naturally, are needling him about what he’s doing, sitting in opposite chairs to him.

“Leave Snufkin to his readings,” Moomintroll calls over as he grinds St. John’s Wort flowers in his mortar, pestling them into yellow powder. “If he wants to have his private sessions you ought to let him.”

“But he said we could see!” Posey whines in protest.

Snufkin nods. “I did say that. It’s alright, Moomin.”

Moomintroll, defeated, sighs and returns to his work. With all the stress and creeping sadness he feels, he needs to get this tea blend for himself finished.

“I don’t believe in card magic anyway,” Posey says, proud of herself. “Hocus pocus and all that.”

“‘Magic’ means that there is an instant cure against someone’s troubles,” Snufkin explains. “You should never go into any brand of magick expecting such, dear beast. If you put nothing into the practice you’ll get nothing out of it.”

“I don’t get it.”

“I’ll try it,” Pudsey elects.

“Alright,” Snufkin purses a lip, considering this. “What do you like to do, little Pudsey?”

“Me?” he chirps. “Uh, I dunno.”

“We can start simple,” Snufkin bargains. “There is no proper method to begin with, so when I was your age I liked the three-card spread. Past, present, future.”

“Nah,” Pudsey intercepts. “I want one card, please.”

“We can do that,” Snufkin agrees. “Although, you shouldn’t interrupt me next time.”

Moomin hears the flippant chopping of cards, a familiar sound that he can remember when Mamma performed her own divinations, or when he was bored and watching Snufkin do the same under trees or in his tent.

The cards scatter, and the room awaits with baited breath as Snufkin instructs Pudsey to pick whichever card he likes. But he mustn’t turn it around.

Moomin can’t help it, he blatantly sticks his neck out so he can look and see the card turning upright, facing Pudsey. If he squints, he can depict three persons standing around some kind of pillar. He hasn’t seen that one before.

“My, my, Three of Coins,” Snufkin murmurs sagely — he sounds pleasant, so it must be good. “How exciting for you.”

“Really?” Pudsey discards his initial disbelief and is now bouncing in his seat, making the legs squeak. “What does it mean? What do I get?”

Snufkin knits his paws together with a smile. “I don’t come across this suit often,” he says. “So my knowledge may be a bit dim, but. It refers to your sense of stability, often in the sense of riches.”

“Am I getting money?” The Woodie cocks his head.

“Not necessarily,” Snufkin gently apprises. “It could be something about achieving a goal that you have in mind. This card assures you that whatever you set your mind to, the odds are stacked in your favor. ...It could have something to do with your sister, too.”

Posey squeaks. “Me?”

“You two are close,” he explains. “And with the card being upright, teamwork could work in your favor of completing whatever goal you have in mind.”

Both siblings make a long and disappointed groan that makes Moomintroll smile.

“And, oh, now what is that behind your ear?” Snufkin exclaims, faux-surprised. Moomintroll watches as he ducks a paw right behind Pudsey’s earlobe, and out pops a silver coin from Snufkin’s fingertips. He draws back to reveal the prize and Pudsey’s jaw drops.

“Well, well,” Snufkin says warmly and with a grin. “It seems that the cards did mean money after all.”

Moomintroll is glad no one is looking — he’s barely smothering his chuckle, feeling bubbly.

Pudsey’s eyes are bigger than the saucers washing on the rooftops. “Wow!” He eagerly snatches the coin from Snufkin, admiring it with astonishment. “I’m gonna be rich!”

Posey, in envy, threatens to dampen his mood with a snort. “It’s just a measly shilling.”

She’s ignored. “Mister Snufkin, is there any more back there?” Pudsey asks hopefully, 

“Perhaps not there,” Snufkin says. “But maybe elsewhere, if you keep your eyes open. And, if you’re nice with your sister.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Neither sound too ecstatic.

There is still that teeny piece of Moomintroll that is little and impressed with Snufkin’s divination. He never sharpened that tool of magick descended from Mamma’s side, but it’s still present in him, if he were open the gates and let that section in.

Though, Snufkin was always more subtle on his belief system than Mamma, fooling most with his careless demeanor that told many he was keen on anything, unbothered by spirituality. Moomintroll likes seeing the bits of him which are more obdurate and biased — like viewing shrapnels of gold through tiny holes. 

“Pappa,” Pudsey calls over, “you should do a card reading too!”

Moomintroll nearly fumbles his plates overboard; he catches the half-tipped mortar in a nick of time.

“I— Oh, no, no. Those cards, they’re not for me,” Moomin attempts hastily. “My family is more... your grandmother preferred cartomancy! Yes, playing cards, that’s more for me.”

Pudsey and Posey look between themselves, scrunching up their noses. “Cartomancy?” both repeat.

“Never mind that. Never mind.” Moomintroll scrubs his paws together. “Leave Snufkin to his tarot and me to my herbs—”

“I could.”

Snufkin sounds trodden and unsure. But his eyes never deter, looming at Moomin from over the glasses.

Moomintroll watches him watching him, and feels something very sharp digging into him. He combats this well and with dignity.

“Right,” he says. “Okay.”

Snufkin appears as surprised as Moomin himself is at the accepted invitation. But, this feels like _some_ thing.

As soon as the shock glitters his eyes it vanishes, and Snufkin just nods as though he’d known all along.

“I might have to recharge the cards,” he admits. “Just for a bit. I’ll call you when it’s ready.”

Moomintroll nods and abandons his work to immediately flee upstairs, like a punished child.

He puts his head onto the pillow and can’t recall what happens next.

* * *

He looks outside and it’s a bluish dusk.

Moomintroll springs up. “Oh, _damn it!_ ” he hisses beneath teeth; his responsibilities rail into him all at once like a car crash on television, and his head sparkles with black stars as he throws his legs over the side.

Genevieve peeks up from where she’d apparently been sleeping beside him, and he feels badly for disturbing her but everything is _wrong._

Moomin runs downstairs in a dizzying fright to prepare for the worst-case scenario…

...And finds that everything is exactly where he’d left it. The kids are circled around the television, Snufkin is at the table, and Madge has put on a pot to prepare a quick dinner.

“Madge,” Moomin rubs his face, colliding with his tiredness again. “I can do it. Step away and watch some TV.”

“I’m okay,” she says.

“Madge.”

She huffs and turns away, her feathers tittering for the smallest of moments like a stuttering nerve, before going outside to seemingly smoke.

Snufkin turns. “I can prepare something.”

“No,” Moomin snaps. “No, I’ll do it. I’ll do everything, just…” he rubs a paw over his face. “I didn’t mean to sleep.”

“You must have been very tired,” Snufkin says. “You needed sleep.”

“No I _don’t._ ”

Snufkin’s expression does something funny again, like the strings holding everything in its place had become a touch looser.

Moomintroll shakes his head. “Let’s...get this over with.”

“...If you want,” Snufkin adjusts his placements and lights one of the small candles he’d packed, since it is getting rather dark. “We don’t have to do it in here, there’s plenty of places for privacy.”

“That’s alright,” Moomin says, walking over. He doesn’t want this to last longer than it should, and should the children eavesdrop it’s not like they’d understand what’s occurring anyway.

 _So,_ Moomintroll takes his seat parallel to Snufkin’s little setup, whom shuffles the cards one final time before swiping them onto the tablecloth until a swarm of them possess a good half of the table.

“I remember what to do,” Moomin says before Snufkin opens his mouth to recite the instructions. “You’ve done a reading for me once.”

Snufkin blinks. “Did I?”

“We were young,” Moomintroll admits. _But he was so terribly impressed that he’d never forgotten._ “But it seemed easy enough. You never did any sort of complicated spread.”

“No, I didn’t,” he agrees. “So, three-card spread then?”

“Mmmm,” Moomin bites a piece of his inner lip. “I doubt _past_ would tell me anything I don’t already know.”

Snufkin doesn’t comment. “We can just do present and future.”

“Okay…”

“Take a card, then.”

Moomintroll doesn’t even look down, he quickly snatches one of the cards atop the others, easier to access. The sooner he decides the sooner he can return to his chores and forget about it.

He picks one on the farthest right for his future, and places them both before him, looking up at Snufkin for further instruction.

Snufkin knits his paws together and leans forward, the candlelight spilling dull gold on the outline of him. “You can turn them over now.”

Moomin does. Hastily reaching over and nabbing the card he finds it’s upside down, which he was taught is normal. 

“Oh!” he says. “I remember this one, actually. The Lovers. But it’s not...actually about…”

Snufkin’s expression does that _thing_ again, tightening up the strings before they unspool entirely. Moomintroll sees his whiskers do a single stammer, and he adjusts his glasses for a moment.

“Lovers reversed is…” begins Snufkin, “It’s about disharmony or broken relationships.”

Oh.

Snufkin continues as though reading off a list. “It’s a card with a lot of very _broad_ interpretations, and since we...well, haven’t talked much, I don’t want to impose on anything.”

Moomintroll would rather him have scooped out his heart and put it on display for the whole world to mock. A section of him feels raw and _naked_ , his skin crawls.

(Snufkin _knows_ what this is about and him not outright saying it makes Moomintroll want to throw something.)

“It’s a very confrontational card, if you want my standpoint,” Snufkin says. “But since I don’t see it often _I_ always just assumed it was about imbalance, or something not talked about.”

The room goes silent.

“...Let’s do the future one,” Moomintroll decides.

“Okay.”

Moomin quickly flips the next one; _it’s almost over..._

....Huh, he hasn’t encountered this one before. Moomintroll squints his eyes a bit at the depiction of a woman in bed, distraught and with her face in her hands. An array of swords line the walls behind her.

He doesn’t know why he gets a pit in his stomach. It’s worsened when he looks to Snufkin for answers.

Who looks...well, Snufkin has a hard time looking like anything. But Moomintroll suspects, given the atmosphere, that he’s discomforted with the tarot results as well.

For one, he isn’t spewing his expertise about it.

Second is his eyes are fogging over like isinglass, and Moomin thinks of the afternoon in the cloudberry patch.

At last, Snufkin clears his throat. “Nine of Swords,” he says. “Moomin, I’m…”

Moomintroll waits, pricking an ear. “Yes?”

“Moomintroll,” he begins very slowly and very carefully, “Nine of Swords is a card that…” he doesn’t finish.

Moomin’s heart balls up like tinfoil, a gut reaction that he can’t understand making his palms sweat. _Something is wrong._

“It’s… Have you...had any sort of dark thoughts as of late?”

Oh, _absolutely not._

Moomintroll stands.

“Nothing is set in stone, of course!” Snufkin’s fretful assurance chafes against him like his skin beneath a slicer.

“So, what? Your cards just say I’m fu—” Moomintroll lowers his voice, amending, “that I’m _unsound?_ ”

“No, no!” Snufkin makes to get to his feet. “Moomin, the tarot is only a mediator for—”

Moomin swats his potential touch away, leaving the other to flinch backwards like a startled cat.

“You _rigged_ them!” Moomintroll hisses, upset boiling over like an untended pot of stew.

Snufkin’s eyes widen. “I’d never do that!”

“Why don’t you just come out and say it, _you think I’m a disaster without your help!_ ”

“I don’t—”

“Don’t help? Oh, I’m _aware_ ,” Moomintroll scoffs, and already he’s beginning to feel bad. The kids are definitely listening in now. “Just leave me out of your little schemes of making me feel bad, or whatever it is you’ve got up your sleeve!”

“You _know_ that I’d never use divination against you like that,” Snufkin is sounding angry too. “What the cards say is something that’s out of my paws.”

Logically, Moomintroll knows this. But his mind is put to struggling against a tar pit, and every flail he makes has him sinking lower and lower.

Snufkin continues firmly, “I don’t _want_ anything from you, I’m here because I have decided to be and I can leave just as quickly as I came. I’m not— I _wouldn’t_ try and spin this story like you’re asking me too!”

Moomintroll’s chest flares up white-hot. He hasn’t even noticed they’re standing in front of the television and there are a lot of eyes watching whom are _very_ confused.

Realizing this, he simmers down with a scoff.

“Snufkin, you can do whatever the blazes you _want_ , you always have,” his voice goes lower. “But you can’t just— _throw_ this at me and expect me to remain calm.”

“You wanted to do the reading, I just suggested it.”

“That’s not—!” It takes everything to breathe in, let it out, close his eyes. Moomin tries again: “Alright. Alright, fair. Alright. _Alright._ ”

Snufkin tilts his head. “Moomintroll?”

“Just let me think about this.”

His face betrays nothing. “Okay, I will.”

Right then, as Snufkin turns to exit the room, he yelps _“Ouch!!”_ and Moomintroll starts at Snufkin hobbling blindly, reaching down to cradle his paw as best he can manage. “For gods sake, you awful little louse—!”

From the records-box he’d slammed into pops out a puff of ginger, her fur stuck up like she’s been shuffling across a wool carpet. Her yellow eyes are huge.

Moomintroll feels a prickle at the base of his throat, nearing a snarl.

Then Snufkin regains posture, rubbing his paw pads, and when he locks eyes with whom he’d tripped over his face drops.

“I...Fjarille, hello,” he sounds clumsy, and his voice has taken a great detour into something forcefully gentle, perhaps desperate. “I’m sorry, dear one. I didn’t even see—”

She bolts towards the fissure between the wall and the television set, beetling as quick as The Ancestor would back home to the safety of the tile stove.

Moomintroll frowns, darkening his eye over in Snufkin’s direction.

—He looks distressed, misplaced. Snufkin looks away and doesn’t seem to spot Moomin is watching him, rubbing a certain spot on his elbow continuously. His lips fold in, and he pauses just a moment, before turning away to retreat outside.

“Um.”

Moomintroll looks to the onlookers all huddled on the couch, looking more confused than anything else. Guilt overwhelms him — they weren’t supposed to see that.

Moomin imagines, briefly, that there are swords gathered upon his walls. They tremble when Snufkin closes the screen door behind him.

Swallowing, he walks over to make a place amongst the children. “What are you watching?” he asks.

Winnie answers, “Somethin’ about the wild west.”

“Oh, that’s nice.”

He needs to ready dinner, but the youngest kids imprison him and so he stares at the television, not processing a lick of it.

Snufkin’s cards remain strewn on the table, the candle’s light looming like a dying star.

* * *

“ _Pappa!_ Captain!!” Moomintroll turns in time as the front door swings open: barging in is Winnie panting and Fisk on all fours. Their paws flail about, eyes wide.

“Goodness! Where’s the fire?” Moomin asks them, stopping his sweeping. “You need to wipe your feet before you come in.”

“But—!” Fisk stands and abruptly cuts in front of Winnie as though shunning them from a turn. “But there’s a big whale! On the docks! Go see!”

“Metal whale!” Winnie asserts breathlessly. “Big! Mooring dock!”

“Alright, alright!” Moomin puts both paws out. “Easy now. What’s gotten into you?”

“Go look!!” Fisk snaps. “You won’t believe us till you look!”

Moomintroll grows more skeptical. “Is that right?”

Some witnesses slink forward from the depths of the house, having heard the commotion and wanting to see for themselves what the fuss was. Genevieve slithers out from underneath the table, having been licking up crumbs, and Madge walks in with her paws in her pockets from the couch, furrow-browed.

Winnie and Fisk keep reiterating the words ‘big’ and ‘dock’ and something akin to a great whale-like thing that’s emerged from the sea. Their fantastical narrative leaves Moomintroll frowning still, but everyone else is enamored.

“Sh-should we go see?” Fjarille peeps her head out from the wall, antennae twitching — Moomin is more relieved at her participation.

“It could swallow up the whole island!” Pudsey proposes.

Skiffle snorts, batting at hir Woodie siblings with hir cane. “Don’t be batty.”

“If it is a whale,” Posey asks Fisk, “where did it come from?”

“Come and _see_!!” Fisk repeats instead, practically dragging everyone he and Winnie can towards the door. “Just come and look!”

Moomintroll relents, seeing his disinterest outnumbered. “Very well,” he sighs at length. “But if you’re telling a fib you’re both in very big trouble.”

“I don’t fib,” he hears Winnie grumble beneath their breath.

Everyone gathers on the porch (Snufkin has either gone fishing or napping, and Moomintroll notices his absence more than he’d like), and at once all heads snap to this gigantic dome _thing_ which has, in fact, devoured half of the mooring docks.

While dismayed, Moomintroll can’t bother to interpret what this Thing could be, or why on earth it’s on his harbor. Because his eyes flit to the dock and are arrested by a golden, round figure smothered in white and pink furs, surrounded by many fancy bags. Her face is obscured by the basket hat she wears, entangled in white lace and beautiful, lush flowers.

She’s yelling something up at the dome, it looks like, tapping her hooves impatiently so they click against the old woodboards. She doesn’t notice her spectators, ogling her like she’s a sort of nymph that has crashed upon their shores.

Moomintroll steps out, in a trance. Staring at her open-mouthed.

At last, she turns. And makes both a gasp and a scream of delight.

“ _Moomintroll,_ it’s been _much_ too long—”

He barely feels the grit of sand and burrs against his feet as he runs to her, and laughs with unbridled hysteria when they collide with an embrace.

“Snorkmaiden,” he says, veering towards a sob. “Snorkmaiden, I—”

He feels her paws cradle the back of his neck; she smells like perfume and peach and earth, and her voice is light.

“Gracious, Moomin,” she chuckles, “have you really missed me that much?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [snufkin's song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QTGdpUHE0jM)
> 
> 2021 is the year i start remembering to respond to comments.....i'm so sorry i get stage fright when it comes to comments although i appreciate them all immensely!!! without them i would've ceased this fic back in chapter two so thank you all for helping me share this, i want you to know that i appreciate it more than you might ever know


	6. the submarine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> or, as snork may call it, 'the shipmarine.'

_Around them the autumn world looked baked into a golden cobbler, like Moominmamma had just taken it out of the oven and on a windowsill to cool. There were no trees where they were, only distant silhouettes of them, coral-like and black against the wistful greyweather._

_They were centered right on the saddle where two hills meet: the grass was short and brown-dead and the fog creeping in, smothering the tops of the ridges. Moomintroll’s fur was cool and without dewdrops collecting on it: the favor of fall, even when he knew what the season signified._

_Snufkin trailed behind with a more precarious gait than Moomintroll was used to: as the weight packed on he became slower and Moomin had to learn to be patient. He would have stopped and been courteous to guide him along the pasture if he hadn’t been so excited._

_“Here we are,” Moomintroll said proudly, spreading his arms out to demonstrate the space nestled between mountains. It was the perfect size, he still remembers how easily he could have plucked Moominhouse right there and the hills would have just managed to smother it. To him, it was cozy. An assurance._

_Snufkin looked more suffocated; if Moomin thinks about it with the foresight he has now, it’s incredible how Snufkin had managed to stand still for so long without fleeing, like the hills would close in and trap him in their thickets._

_Snufkin looked around. “What is this?”_

_Moomintroll turned to him with a grin that hurt his cheeks. He ignored the question and instead overlapped it with his own. “So, what do you think?”_

_Snufkin’s cheek caved into his teeth, chewing. “Think of what? This?”_

_“Yes! This!” Moomintroll proudly announced, gesturing madly to exude his imaginations onto reality. “I’d found it by chance, and...wouldn’t it be fit for a home?”_

_Snufkin’s gaze was still muddled. He hopped from one foot to another, shifting the weight he didn’t want._

_“Think about it,” Moomintroll walked to him. “I’d been drawing a sort of layout for it, see — up there would be our room, it would face west, see. So we could catch a glimpse of the ocean. Oh, and we can see the ocean too!”_

_The pieces clicked and Snufkin’s face changed. “Moomin.”_

_Moomintroll pointed to where the house resided in his mind — desperate to let Snufkin see what he could. “I was thinking maybe three rooms — no, maybe four is good. So when Mamma and Pappa visit — or your folks! — we wouldn’t have to change one child out of their bedroom. If we just have one child then we can make it into an atelier.”_

_“Moomintroll.”_

_“There’d be a garden too! We can grow our own vegetables, so we wouldn’t have to travel so far. Fruits, too — maybe an apple tree, we can grow it right outside the kitchen window. Wouldn’t that be fun?”_

_“Moomintroll.”_

_“Imagine, we can have little window-box with flowers at every window — or birdhouses, although we should probably keep those away from the bedrooms—”_

_Snufkin tugged himself away from Moomintroll, who realized just how close he was to Snufkin right then._

_“Moomintroll,” he repeated for the final time. Each syllable was so brittle that Moomintroll’s spine coiled. “That’s enough.”_

_He shuddered like all his nerves were bunched up, trying to warm him or rid him of a nasty touch._

_Moomintroll’s concern skyrocketed. “Are you alright?”_

_“I’m—” Snufkin was struggling against a current Moomin couldn’t see nor comprehend. “No. No, I’m not doing this. Moomintroll, I’m not going to live like that.”_

_He faltered backwards. “Snufkin, what—”_

_“I can’t,” he tried again. “Moomin, if you put me in that house...it’s too small, don’t you see? This valley, it’s already so vast and free, and even then there are days where I need to leave before it cloisters up and chains me.”_

_“I know,” Moomin said. “But this will be different. This home would be ours, and you don’t have to own it — or build it, even. It’d be like your tent!”_

_“My tent, I can just pack up and move whenever I please.”_

_“But our children—” Snufkin’s claws gave into his sleeve and pulled hearing him say that “they would have a place that’s all on their own. Not Moominhouse or your tent, they could stay and grow and live how they pleased. And we could watch them grow, in this little space we have!”_

_Snufkin set an uncertain hand upon the crest of his stomach — it was a new stim for him, Moomintroll had noted, for when he was in deep thought or very nervous or, often, both._

_He looked like he was sucking in a very deep breath, calming himself. With the equipoise of the birds gone and Snufkin’s odd frenzy, Moomin felt the quiet more than he’d ever felt before._

_“I am already,” he began, “doing more than I have ever been able to do providing us with any children.” His words sounded hand-picked. “This house you want, this family...Moomintroll, I am giving you the absolute best that I can, and if I were straining myself any harder I’d be a husk.”_

_“But,” Moomintroll furrowed his brows, “if you didn’t— we talked about it, and you decided to keep it.”_

_“And it is with restraint and love that I have kept it,” Snufkin said. “I know you don’t understand it — I’ve explained it and you never will understand it — but what this has done to me is brutal and wrong. You don’t understand the stares or— or the accusations, everything I do lugging around this— this thing—it’s wrong.”_

_(Frankly, privately, Moomintroll didn’t see what the problem was. Snufkin always seemed to have these spiels prepared about how as a man he shouldn’t look like this. He shouldn’t be carrying anything — Which didn’t make much sense! Moomin had met many men and persons that can perform such an astonishing task — Sniff’s father had carried him, and Sniff in turn was hoping to do the same soon!_

_And besides, it wasn’t not as though every lady he met could get pregnant, either. Snorkmaiden couldn’t have any kids herself, and Little My was so uninterested in sex and romance Moomintroll has deemed her out of the equation, too._

_But every time he said this, Snufkin just bit his tongue and settled into a bad temper. It irritated Moomin, really. Snufkin shouldn’t be so cruel when Moomintroll was just trying to help.)_

_Instead Moomintroll assured him, “But you’re not wrong, you’re exceptional — imagine, carrying something that will grow into something new! Something we don’t know yet, that has never existed until we created it. Snuffi, I think that’s amazing, don’t you?”_

_“But that’s just it,” Snufkin cried. “We don’t know. We don’t know them, or what they want — their wants will change and we’ll never keep up!”_

_“And isn’t that exciting! How they’ll always be changing—”_

_“Moomintroll.”_

_Moomintroll, at long last, saw the distance in Snufkin’s eyes — and saw in it the fear equivalent to a cornered, wounded animal. How he fought to keep himself from tearing holes into his oversized dress. The purr that was too rattled to sound happy. Put together he saw a very frightened man._

_He steadied his breath of exasperation and instead reached for his paws till they were safely encased in his. He squeezed them, stepping closer until they were breath’s length apart._

_“Of course I’m scared too,” Moomintroll murmured. He lowered his head to where it could kiss his patchy hat. “But I love you, and that makes me very brave. I can...we can make this work. Just think, this is all another journey for you to take! And this one we can take together!”_

_He sighed. “And...no matter how many children we’ll end up having, I’ll make them a place. We’ll wait for you to come back, and even if anything changed we would love you. Just like you love us. It’s not...this is new, but it doesn’t have to be scary.”_

_Snufkin didn’t look up, and something unfolded between the stuttering of autumn leaves, the rolling of the wind across these yellow hills._

_“May I have a minute?” he asked at last, breaking away._

_Moomintroll blinked. “Of course.”_

_Snufkin nodded stiffly, lips folding in, and walked away. It didn’t take him but a few more steps to sit on the curve of the hill and look at nothing for a very long time._

_Moomintroll let him be. He turned back to their would-be home, and tried to picture it as small and intimidating like Snufkin had, but simply couldn’t._

* * *

Snorkmaiden greets the children at a figurative arm’s-length, as their energy exhausts her to a degree that Moomintroll doesn’t get. They tug on her beautiful fur and in unison give her snapshots of the adventures she’d missed between now and her last departure.

Her fur is pink but bordering on a sort of greenish-purplish hue resembling a bruise. Moomintroll intervened quickly and warned the kids to settle so they wouldn’t overwhelm their guest.

Fjarille has joined and is timidly flexing her webbed paws against Moomin’s paws engulfing it; she kneads her claws uncertainly into the squishy pads of her father, and he feels wretched knowing that she is often not this shy.

Her recently-established fancy for Snorkmaiden might be partly to blame, but there are too many external factors to surmise the proper reason. He’s just grateful that she’s ventured out and is now bobbing her heels against the boards in an excited stim.

“Alright,” Moomintroll says again. “Dears, please give her a bit more space. And leave her bags be until she lets you open them.”

Snorkmaiden looks at him, smiling coyly. “Oh, such a gentleman, Moominpappa.”

Moomintroll frowns. “Would you rather Fisk eat away at your bag?”

“My—” She whips around, jewelry jingling, and shouts in offense to see that Fisk, indeed, has begun to nibble on a leathery purse stacked atop one of her many suitcases.

He gnaws loudly as she cries, “For the love of— get _off,_ you smelly newt! That’s priceless!!”

Fisk peeks up, and Moomintroll sees that the skin of the bag is now stuck between his fangs. “But it tastes good…”

“Ugh, won’t you beasts just… Here, take one of my brother’s galoshes,” Snorkmaiden huffs and reaches over to scour through Snork’s bags — more haphazardly put together than hers. “You niblings like those things, don’t you?”

Fisk makes a face. “Rubber? Yuck.”

“Oh, just—! Moomintroll!!”

Moomintroll steps in with a sigh. “Fisk, leave Snorkmaiden’s things alone. Go and chew on one of my wicker bassinets.”

Immediately the little nibling’s eyes gleam and off he races to the house on all fours.

Skiffle reaches out for Snorkmaiden and is the only one allowed to — as ze analyzes people best by feeling them up and getting a good hypothesis on what they might look like. With hir paws as hir eyes ze compliments her jewelry and she sniffs.

“Finally! Someone who appreciates it!” She pointedly looks to Moomintroll.

“Erm,” he says. “I think you’re beautiful regardless of it?”

“Nice try.”

Skiffle snorts, pulling back and gaining a grip on their cane against the swaying dock — Snork has rustled it with a shift against the submarine….ship thing. Besides, ze doesn’t enjoy venturing near the beach for good reason.

“Miss Maiden,” Winnie tugs on her silk tippet (“Don’t do that,” Snorkmaiden warns), “do you have any candies?”

Snorkmaiden stares. “Candies?”

“Winnie!” Moomintroll warns with a gasp. “Don’t be so rude!”

“I may have…” Snorkmaiden looks around — during this time the Woodies have climbed atop her shoulder via using her scarf as a hoisting rope. “Hm, no. _Snork!_ ” She throws her head up to the slope of the great machine. “Snork, have you seen my candy purse anywhere?”

“I don’t know!” Moomintroll pricks his ear to the muffled banging inside the dome. “I _wouldn’t_ know! Which would even be the candy purse?”

Snorkmaiden scoffs. “Honestly, Snork, it should be obvious.”

“It isn’t!!”

“By my tail!” she scolds — when she hurries over to yell at him closer and proper the Woodies are flung from her backside on accident. “Snork I have given you specific instructions on how to transport my belongings and I expect you to know which item is which!”

The Snork makes a disgruntled ‘pah!’ noise but, to Moomin’s surprise, doesn’t go on some drabble about women and their emotions, or whatnot. Which is an improvement. 

This doesn’t make Snorkmaiden appeased, though. She exclaims again, “Do I need to come back in there and give your ears a good batting?”

“ _No,_ ” Snork groans. “Give me a moment.”

Snorkmaiden spits her own ‘pah!’ right back at him and her hooves clop-clop-clop back to Moomintroll and the awaiting children. “Forgive him, he’s in one of his ‘moods’.”

“Right,” Moomin says.

Before any braver child tells her unfiltered that she, too, is being soreheaded, there is a great hiss that makes everyone’s ears press down to their heads — the sound following that is like a mass of rust being scratched.

Moomintroll and the children watch with surprise, and Snorkmaiden with diffidence, as the curve of the dome slowly pries its mouth open like a massive whale; inside Moomin finds the makings of a ship's deck layout — it's not like Moomin’s boats, which were fit for only one passenger. It reminds him of the old illustrations Moominpappa had scavenged from his travelling companion, the one that had constructed the Oshun Oxtra.

There on the main deck, standing behind the helm with pastel-colored bags, stands The Snork in question. His eyeglasses match the furious red of his bangs as he fiddles nonsensically with his sister’s belongings.

“Blasted...” he mumbles when he trips over one, hauling as many as possible into his arms — he’s notably weaker than Snorkmaiden in brawn. “Who through _what_ agency needs so many things??”

“It’s not about things,” Snorkmaiden argues; with courage bolder than anyone else she scrambles atop the low-placed hull and joins her brother. “It’s about the principle of feeling at home.”

Snork looks at her bewildered. “So what’s in all of these then??”

“It’s about the _principle,_ ” Snorkmaiden repeats as though he’s insane. “I shall fill them however I please and _ditch_ them whenever I please. Their contents are none of your beeswax, brother mine.” The last sentence is sweet and dripping with play.

Now undeterred by the massive Still-Unnamed Thing before them, the mass of kids and their pappa advance to get a closer look — Winnie especially is captivated, looking around wildly like all the earth’s treasures had been without prompt offered to them.

"Gosh, Snork," Moomin speaks aloud in awe, holding Genevieve — Snork and Snorkmaiden alike would throw fits if she froze something valuable. "Did you design all this yourself?"

The Snork looks over, remembering his audience. He adjusts the wiring around his ears, by extension aligning his glasses with his snout.

"It's still in development," he sniffs. "But it's nearly finished. Just a few more tweaks and I'll be ready to announce its completion.”

Snorkmaiden leans in to coyly whisper, "All of his projects are 'in development'." Her voice carries a grin. "Never stopped the commissioners from being impressed."

"Of course," Moomintroll whispers back. Raising his volume he adds, "Wait, commission?”

"Oh, did I not mention that?" Snorkmaiden says. "Snork had been commissioned by some old loon to build him some ship. Seemed to me he had a whole _navy_ of contraptions to choose from, but...perhaps I'm just more kindly about my indulgences.”

"It's not just— one of his— ships!" Snork battles the suitcase maze to join them. "It's a ship-slash-submarine, and it will be used for marine navigation and study!”

“Ooh,” Moomintroll says. Genevieve flaps her paws in agreement; she doesn’t know the sign for _Impressive_. “What will it be called?”

“Um.” Snork scrunches up his face. “Ship....submarine. Shipmarine.”

“Grandiose,” Snorkmaiden remarks.

“It’s a _work in progress,_ ” Snork says once more, flattening his ears. “I’ll name it when it’s done!”

Winnie surges forward to take control of the helm, tempted to spin it, before Snork catches them and grabs them by the scruff. “A-ta-ta-ta!! What are you doing?”

Winnie looks at him. “Steerin’.”

“No!” he sets them down beside him. “You’ll surely make us sick! The keel is not rooted in the sand and you’ll ram it into the rocks!”

“Cool.”

“Moomintroll!!”

“I’m coming,” Moomin sighs, walking over to pluck his child away much to their disappointment. He holds them until they scramble up his scruff and onto his shoulders, half-tail flicking.

“The tiller ropes are loose but now I’m not gonna tell him,” they grumble, and Moomintroll lets that be.

Genevieve pats them in sympathy, assuring them that their idea was, in fact, _very cool._

Once they’re all done stroking The Snork’s ego, the able-bodied children help Snorkmaiden move her (apparently display-only??) suitcases without complaint, easing the burden off Snork’s shoulders in the nick of time as his pelt goes back to its neutral mauve. His posture straightens.

“That’s better,” he breathes; he loops back to an old topic with Moomintroll, regarding the development of the Thing: “The dome is actually meant to have another layer of glass, it should shift layers as the user pleases — I just haven’t constructed glass which won’t break in deepwater.”

“But he’s close,” Snorkmaiden pipes up. “He says the whole top of the submarine will be able to peel off like a planetarium roof!”

“Wow,” Moomintroll says, while Winnie whistles _right_ into his eardrum. “That’ll be mighty impressive, Snork!”

“It _will_ be,” he rebuttals, dodging the compliment. “But it isn’t yet. And I’ll have to pay for a whole field’s worth of _just_ glass should I find the suitable material — _yipe!!_ ”

Snork’s fur bursts stark-yellow in surprise as a small black snout pops up from behind his back — Moomintroll realizes that Fjarille had been unaccounted for way too long.

“Hi,” they say, golden eyes shimmering.

Snork regains a sliver of composure when he sees the perpetrator along his backside is not, in fact, a giant bug. “Um…”

“I— I like your ship. I have a radio, you should...you should come and see it.”

“Right,” he looks to Moomintroll, eyes screaming _help._

Moomintroll just shrugs, saying back _you’re on your own,_ and Snorkmaiden fails to hide a giggle under her paw.

Fjarille clings to his shoulder fiercely. “Do you wanna go— go look at it?”

“Oh! That’s a wonderful idea!” Moomintroll exclaims. “Uncle Snork, you’d be the perfect help — Fjarille has been trying to make a proper satellite for quite a while.”

‘Uncle’ Snork’s eyebrows lower. “Satellite?”

“I’m trying to listen to...weather stations,” Fjarille says straight into his ear. “From the ‘Meric’s.”

“Americas,” Madge corrects from the sidelines.

“A’merchas,” Skiffle corrects in turn, emphasizing the difference.

“Hmph,” Snork tries to look uninterested. “Perhaps...I’m very busy, but if I have a slot available I will think about it”

Fjarille looks happier than she’s looked in a long time; Moomintroll’s heart nearly bursts with relief.

“Now please get off me.”

“In a minute,” Fjarille says, not budging.

* * *

It takes some accommodations but at long last the children have transported the snork siblings’ bags inside — Snork still insists on sleeping in his creations’ bunker but that doesn’t stop anyone.

Now with the dock cleared, Moomintroll feels as though he can finally give his friend a proper moomin kiss, of which she’s been deprived of for much too long.

Snorkmaiden giggles and returns it — her fur is silkier than his from all her expensive hygiene products, and when Moomin backs away some of her blush coats both his cheeks.

“You’ll have to tell me absolutely _everything_ I’ve missed, darling,” she says in a faux accent, making him laugh. She flips her bangs in a flamboyant manner, eyes shining beneath them. “It’s been so long I’d forgotten how flat your house was!”

Moomintroll looks trodden at that. “It’s not that flat...is it?”

“For a moominhouse, it’s like one of your mother’s pancakes,” Snorkmaiden replies.

“It’s a good moominhouse!” Moomintroll protests. “It’s still shaped like a tile stove! Just...like a tile stove on its side.”

“Maybe,” Snorkmaiden says, clearly disbelieving.

Snork crosses his arms and continues to look chronically unimpressed with everything. “You ought to be hibernating by now, shouldn’t you?”

“Oh,” He might not mean to sound so patronizing but Moomintroll’s ears still flush pink. “Well...no, this isn’t a good winter for it. I’ve been waning them off pine for a bit, it’s truly the Woodies I’m worried about falling asleep.”

“We won’t,” Pudsey says.

“Of course you won’t,” Moomin assures him, then whispers, “I’ve been introducing them to coffee.”

Snorkmaiden laughs. “So you’re _that_ desperate, you silly troll. But I am glad you’re still awake.”

“I am too.”

“But...” she cocks her head a smidge. “You said it wasn’t a good winter, why come? I half-expected this visit to be for naught, and you’d all be snug in your beds by the time we arrived.”

Moomintroll’s stomach corkscrews until it feels so tight he could burst. “Well…”

There’s a tug on her, again, and Snorkmaiden is distracted for the most blissful of moments. She sidesteps not-that-subtly to allude grubby Woodie paws. “Yes, erm…”

“Posey,” Moomintroll says.

“Yes, right, Posey!” she says. “I still don’t have your candies.”

Posey, bashful under her idol’s attention, stalls to bask in her company before managing, “Um...Pappa’s got a friend here.”

Moomintroll’s heart _stops._

“A friend!” Snorkmaiden is clearly enjoying what she presumes is Moomintroll’s embarrassment. Her sidelong eyes glitter like the topazes on her neck, smothered in mischief. “Moomin, you _rapscallion!_ You never told me you had a friend!”

“Yeah!” Posey smiles wider. “He’s new and he lives here now.”

Snorkmaiden guffaws. “Do tell!”

“No—!” Moomintroll lunges forward to scoop up the Woodie but it’s too late.

Posey wriggles away from his grasp to happily go on: “Moomin loves him, they’re gonna get married!”

Madge warns, “Posey…”

“Wait,” Skiffle trots forward with brows so high they could’ve leapt off hir face. “Moomin, you _love_ him??”

“Gross!” Winnie cups their paws over their mouth. “That’s gross! You’re gross, Pappa!”

...At least Snorkmaiden is having a riot over this. Moomintroll scrambles fiercely between each child to hush them, with no avail but making himself look more incriminated. Every switch from glaring in warning to looking helplessly at Snorkmaiden’s face shows her folded in her sides with a terrible laugh of joy. She wipes at the tears before they smear her makeup.

“Oh, Moomin, how _vampish!_ ” Snorkmaiden swats him once her composure is regained. Her fur is an adorning pink. “I _must_ meet this handsome devil who’s absolutely snatched my little moomin’s heart!”

(Snork makes a very long and theatrical groan behind her, to let everyone know that he’s still present and a spoilsport.)

“Snorkmaiden,” Moomintroll feels more and more trapped in a sinking pit of molasses. His voice wobbles. “It’s...you see...you _have_ met him, but…”

There needs to be more but he can’t get it out.

Snorkmaiden looks at him puzzled but sobers up quickly.

And then, watching the cogwheels in her head become greased, Moomintroll can do nothing but watch her stare grow icy.

“He isn’t.”

Moomintroll’s swallow is painful.

Some of the kids make chatter, feeling the grey wash over the fun spirits. Few hush the more conversational of the bunch, flitting between their aunt and foster parent and watching both hackles rise for very different purposes.

Her fur coat goes red like a dye into waves. Even Snork winces.

“Moomintroll, bless my ever-golden tail,” Snorkmaiden volume rises. “Moomin, he _isn’t._ ”

“Snorkmaiden,” he warns her.

That does it. Moomin witnesses her fury spread from the heart to the throat in a scalding yellow like she’s swallowed a candle. The ends of her body are nearing maroon and embers might as well be sparkling her down.

“Snorkmaiden,” he says again. “Listen to me—”

The sea of people parts as Snorkmaiden clambors so ferociously down the pier that it rattles; her pronounced feet are only muted by the clouds of sand she kicks off of her like an irritated horse. She walks up the mound, to the steps, and swings open the door so suddenly Moomin wonders how the handles didn’t fly off.

“What’s a vamp?” Pudsey asks in the meantime.

He doesn’t get to answer. By the time Moomintroll is able to unglue his jaw from the muzzle there’s a scream.

“HE _IS!!!_ ”

Moomintroll abandons Snork to the kids (who yells at him) and bolts after her.

* * *

He isn’t sure what exactly he expected to find: at best nothing at all and at worse perhaps a mangled corpse under her heel.

Moomintroll is more offput to step inside and the first scene which slams into his field of vision is the chairs adjacent, the tableware misconstrued, and Snorkmaiden thrusting the end of a broomstick underneath the table, prodding at something.

Next he sees the pair of golden eyes just beneath the table, lonesome as dull bits of gold.

“Come out here and _face_ me, you awful imp!” she’s screaming, craning her neck down to see him. “You grokely beast!! You cretin!”

Moomintroll rushes forward, arms out. “Snorkmaiden, stop!”

Hearing him she stands upright, but isn’t the least bit sorry or reproachful. The grip on her broom is still tight and he has no doubt she isn’t above thwacking _him,_ either.

“Moomintroll,” she hisses. “You didn’t tell me you had _rats_ in your kitchen!”

“Snorkmaiden, I understand,” he bargains carefully. “I get it. I _know._ I know it’s a lot—”

“Not even a postcard??” She kneels back down and continues her tirade. “No phone call?? Not even for your daughter’s god damn birthday?”

The eyes that Moomintroll catches under the table glare at him for assistance.

“Okay,” Moomin walks forward again; he tries to make it look like he isn’t reaching for the broom. “Snorkmaiden, I know what this may look like…”

“Vampish indeed!” She snarls at Moomintroll, stepping back — _damn._ “You’ve been harboring him for how long now — without telling me???”

“He’s only just arrived!” Moomin promises. “Please, Floren, please believe me. I would have told you but I’d already sent out my last letter!”

She considers this, still bristling.

Her eyes then narrow into slits. “You need to tell me why he’s here and you need to be quick.”

Snufkin dares to peek out, just a touch. “Erm...perhaps I can say?”

“I don’t want to hear a _single_ word out of you!” Snorkmaiden jabs her weapon towards him in vivid accusation. “Back under there! Shoo!!”

He retreats as told.

“Snufkin,” Moomintroll says — taking into account any stint in her expression, and there is none — “Snufkin is here because he...wanted to celebrate Fjarille’s birthday.”

“And fillyjonks fly,” Snorkmaiden snaps. “Really, come on Moomintroll.”

“But he did!” Moomin exclaims. “He arrived and now he won’t go — and now he’s here, and he’s _staying._ And I don’t—” 

He hisses between teeth, in ebbing pain: “I don’t know why now, I really don’t. But— _Floren_ …”

He peters out of explanation and exhaustion trickles out his lips instead. He caves forward, where the top of his head brushes slightly against the thick gold of her chest. She doesn’t move back, or move at all, but he does notice that the thorns of her fur-tips are battening down, slowly.

Her chest expands and he feels the hot breath of her exhaling out the mouth, relinquishing her anger. But not by much.

“You’re going to regret this, you know. But,” she murmurs, “I will trust you, only this one time.”

He should feel relieved but he doesn’t.

Snorkmaiden steps back and calls down, “Alright, Snufkin. The ruling states that you may come out now.”

Hesitantly, as though he may encounter a landmine, Snufkin crawls out. His hair is a mess and his hat is gone, but is recovered when Snorkmaiden stiffly holds it out for him to take, having picked it off the floor.

“Go on,” she says.

Snufkin slowly blinks.

She makes a long sigh and throws it like a frisbee in his direction, where it hits his chest and he fumbles to position it back where it belongs.

The three stand in polar opposites of the room, and it still feels flooded. Any more tension and the air would smell of chlorine and spark like raw electricity.

Moomintroll is thankful for the heavy trodding up the steps.

“Moomintroll, I would not complain at _all_ if you took charge of—” Snork walks in with bundles of children tucked under his arm or on his shoulders toying with his glasses or chasing his tail; Madge and Skiffle follow behind him and make no effort to assist. He stops, drinking in the set before him, and falls onto Snufkin huddling in the corner. “Oh. Hello, Snufkin.”

Snufkin nods. “Snork.”

Snork’s eyes narrow. “Aren’t you dead? I suspected you were dead.”

“I’m getting there.”

“Aren’t we all,” the other sighs, and quickly closes that interaction. “Moomintroll, they keep infiltrating my workshop, may you please just—”

“Alright,” Moomintroll surrenders. “Alright.” He calls the kids to him and at once they spill out of Snork’s grasp and run to him.

All except Fjarille.

“Darlings, if you go upstairs and play in your rooms for a bit, you will have two toffees for bed,” Moomintroll bargains, with a much-too bright voice. “Leave the grown-ups to get settled! It’s going to get rather boring.”

They scuttle up the steps. Even Madge, thank heavens, interrogates nothing and instead leaves him to clean the mess of a kitchen. The most dialogue she offers is packed into the side-eye she has and will continue to throw Snufkin’s direction: a routine by this point.

Moomintroll readies himself to pry Fjarille painlessly off Snork’s shoulder.

“I... I want to...stay with Uncle Snork,” she says before Moomin intrudes. “We’re going to fix th-the satellite.”

Moomintroll tries hard to think of something parental to say — something gentle like Mamma, maybe fair like Pappa — what’s a good way to say _no, he doesn’t want to play with you_ to a child that has heard only that for the past treacherous month?

He’s dismissed from that duty when Snork shocks absolutely everyone. “If they’re this persistent, then I _suppose,_ ” he clicks his tongue, making sure to drawl on the final word. But Moomintroll catches it — that newfound sparkle about him. “But I won’t be reading to them, or...anything of that sort.”

“They’re seven now,” Moomin feels a smile creep up — it’s so nice to have again. “They’ll be reading to _you,_ more like.”

Fjarille’s antennae twitch madly. “I’ll b-be good!”

“I know you will, moth. Make sure he eats his greens.”

Snork protests, “I’ll come inside for dinner, mind you!” but Fjarille is already so excited she doesn’t hear a single thing.

Snorkmaiden makes an amused little chitter from behind, despite the circumstances, for which Snork throws a particular Look at her which is obsolete.

Snufkin’s input remains strikingly prudent; Moomintroll hates how he just flows into the world around him, no complaints or agreement either way.

 _That’s your fucking daughter,_ he wants to say. _Do something about it._

Sensing the discomfort, Snork turns tail with an undertone of, “Well, alright,” and goes back down the steps. Fjarille clings to the furs on his back like a baby marmoset, their little duck-tail wagging.

Only when they’re gone does Snufkin cut through the impending tension like lace. “Snorkmaiden, it’s nice to—”

“Put a sock in it,” Snorkmaiden shoves her finger in close proximity to his face, stopping him. Her hoof-tip goes tap-tap-tap and her bushy, well-kempt tail goes thump-thump-thump on the nearest chair, eyes sternly downcast. “I’m _thinking._ ”

Snufkin looks like he could protest but thinks better.

“I don’t know what you _think_ you’re doing,” she says at last, glaring steadfast. “And if I’m honest, Snufkin, I really can’t care less. But if you’re so determined to play house until you’re bored then so be it. 

“And, _do_ pardon me if I’m unladylike, here— ” she blesses him with a perfectly-manicured middle finger, “— but I’ve been storing this away for _years._ Here’s your welcome home present, jackass.”

Moomintroll’s paws spread across his face; a headache is coming on.

“If not for Moomintroll’s blessing you’d be six feet under,” she warns him, reaching for her makeshift staff again for good measure. “Do not take that for granted.”

“He gets it,” Moomintroll says. “That’s enough.”

Snufkin, for once, has no drabble to spill that could dissuade the situation — or make them feel foolish for _feeling._ He clears a spot in his throat and nothing more, which could be classified as his agreement to her.

“Anyway,” Snorkmaiden sighs; the piercings she wears twinkle like stars when she turns immediately to Moomintroll, and he takes great interest in her anklet-turned-nose ring because it’s easier than looking at her face.

“ _Anyway,_ ” she repeats, “It’s been days with Snork’s cooking and I’m absolutely _famished_.”

He doesn’t have to be told twice. “I have raspberry creams.”

“Oh, I couldn’t.”

“Oh, no, I _insist._ ”

“Well,” her eyes regain that old gleam to them again; Moomintroll grins. “If it's absolutely no trouble…”

Neither of them comment that the second their backs are turned, Moomintroll recovering his preplanned gift from the cupboards, the screen door clicks shut. They don’t say anything when the space Snufkin had occupied is empty, as Snorkmaiden peels off her layers and seats herself in a chair.

Chewing on her sweets, she continues: “And, Moomintroll, it’s _criminal_ that I’ve been in your home this long and you haven’t asked me for a cup of tea.”

“Oh,” he perks one brow. “Um, alright. Sure. Would you care for some tea with your treats, Snorkmaiden?”

She sighs and her fur puffs up a moment, as though clearing an itch, before it’s tampered down. “A glass of any spirit would be lovely, actually. Thank you.”


	7. the hot springs

_Moominhouse was getting crowded._

_Through calls and through local tongues, doctors began to trickle into the valley. Clearly the due date wouldn’t align with the mymble gestation calendar. So all that was left was the pending period — six months to twelve was a long, cavernous period of not knowing._

_The doctors were taken in kindly, even with their stay being such a shifting foundation. With all the guest rooms occupied, Moomintroll understood Snufkin’s apprehension a little better now: the valley seemed to be lacking any privacy._

_The star-nosed doctor which Ms. Fillyjonk recommended arrived first in a big white coat spewing tools and large round glasses. Moominpappa extended a paw to welcome him in but the doctor smiled past it; the conclusion was easily gathered that he was blind._

_Behind him, patiently holding both his paw and bags: a hemulen with librarian glasses and short red hair. Her tragedy of her own children was carried by her tender smile when she spoke, and she ensured that no other child would suffer under her care ever again. She had a name that dropped too casually in conversation; Moomintroll only remembered her title was The Midwife._

_Next came a thingumy with some odd machines that showed the inside of people. They were always brewing with morbid information to share on their professions, and small talk was impossible with them for this reason — but they meant well._

_Last was a fillyjonk doctor with a weird silver disk strapped to his forehead. He empathized with Snufkin in the aspects that no one in Moominhouse could, and this seemed to release a hair of tension. It wasn’t a big improvement, but it was still noticeable when Moomintroll combed through his muscles._

_This came with a new set of drawbacks:_

_For one thing, Snufkin’s trademark disdain for doctors was a recurring dilemma. There wasn’t any way to weasel out of appointments, there was only supporting him before and after such procedures unfolded. Moomintroll held his paw for the more mundane check-ups. But sometimes, even then, he was shoved away and pointed towards the door, just on the drop of a hat!_

_The second problem was that Snufkin felt sick almost every day._

_Moomintroll held his hair back when the bile sputtered out over sinks. He brought teas and heated blankets for the curling aches. Verbal comforts weren't often satisfactory, he knew, but often the only way to feel like he was of use to Snufkin was to just say he was alright (“Clearly not,” Snufkin snapped), that it would pass, and everyone was there to help him._

_‘For a firstborn the stomachaches are likely the body adjusting,’ the star-nosed doctor said at lunch. ‘I’m hardly concerned. Just keep him on your delicious teas and he’ll be right as rain!’‘_

_‘Oh, yes,’ said The Midwife over coffee cakes. ‘I’ve only assisted in perhaps two mumrik births. They’re very defensive over their young, y’know. We should only expect a few minutes with the baby for the first month or so.’_

_‘So gar so food!” said the thingumy, pointing to their distorted screen — apparently the interior of a stomach. You bee those slips? ‘It’s looking to be a lealthy hitter of...say, one or thwo or tree at the most.’_

_‘I remember having my sons, it was a pain unlike any other,’ the fillyjonk doctor told Moomintroll, hushed in the hallway. ‘You’re going to just have to endure it alongside him. It’s going to be the worst loneliness in the world.’_

_They all spoke kindly and occasionally dipped into a holier-than-thou way of speech that made Moomintroll’s tail lash beneath the table. But amidst the clutter there was a speck of light at the tunnel — a lighthouse buried in mist — and that’s that the family was going to be okay. He acknowledged it; some days that was all that he could do. The acceptance of winter was the preparation for spring, he knew that like it was an organ._

_Moomintroll slipped to the new company with ease. It was a new world, definitely. But he remembered stepping foot into midwinter the first time, or The Adventure, and it was the same sentiment. Bizarre, yes, but equally exciting._

_Snufkin did not see a lighthouse. He didn’t seem to want to look for it at all._

* * *

It takes less than five minutes after clinking their warm Punsch glasses (“Punssi,” Snorkmaiden corrects sharply, and if she wants to be wrong on that then fine) for the children to trickle out of their rooms again. Seems the promise of toffee is banal in comparison to Snorkmaiden.

Moomintroll sets down a cloth so Genevieve can settle in his lap; he does notice the reproach of Snorkmaiden flickering purple for a second — and he knows _why_ but he can still be offended. He tucks her close, just so the grokeling doesn’t misstep and give her a reason to be further wound up.

The Woodies have made themselves at home curled onto her lap; they’re stroked along their backsides like a housepet under her painted fingernails.

“Let’s see,” Snorkmaiden muses. “Where to begin, where to begin…”

“Have you visited Moominvalley recently?” Moomin asks her. “Mamma’s calls have begun to sparse out. I’m a bit worried.”

Snorkmaiden shakes her head. “I haven’t. Perhaps it’s her health again?”

His shoulders drop; hearing it aloud brings back his near-decade of worry.

“I wouldn’t dwell on it,” Snorkmaiden assures him gently, reaching over as far as she can to clasp his paw. “She has Toft and Little My to watch her. They’d have phoned themselves if there was a need to fret.”

“It’s just…” Moomin looks down. “With everything happening…”

“I know,” she says.

(He doesn’t want to be too honest with her, not now — Genevieve is growing cold and the Woodies are beginning to rebel against Snorkmaiden’s petting. He doesn’t need to have them nettled for a reason that’s too heavy for them to really shoulder.)

For all her repellency against children, she knows when to stop for their sake.

“Onto a brighter manner,” Snorkmaiden sits up. “What about Sniff?”

“What _about_ Sniff?”

She flicks an ear. “Well, last I heard he was still trying to sell vacuums!”

Moomintroll dismisses, “That was two years ago!”

“Well perhaps if he’d wanted to stay in touch he’d have asked for my address?”

“Snorkmaiden, you didn’t give anyone a _clue_ about where you were going!”

“So?” she says. “A lady should only be pursued and not the pursuer!”

Moomintroll sighs and takes a sip of his drink, yielding. “He’s gone and made himself a burrow now.”

He watches in amusement the ripple of realization cross along her eyes, into her pelt. Gone purple with shock, she brings a paw to her mouth. “But that would mean…”

Moomin grins. “They’ll be due come spring.”

She gasps. “Good gracious, _they??_ ”

“The doctor said about two or three.”

Her coat flushes orange. “I’d have to knit some clothes until then...” then smacks Moomin on the arm. “You fiend, why didn’t you tell me?”

He laughs, rubbing his arm, now sore. “I’m sorry, it wouldn’t have been as fun if I didn’t see your face.”

“That’s rich,” Snorkmaiden huffs. “You just enjoy milling around and making me suffer without details!”

“A fair assumption,” he teases. He’s prepared for the smack this time so he tenses up; it doesn’t hurt as bad.

She looks cross but she’s smiling. “Well. I am glad to hear that, he’d been trying for a while now.”

“I’m glad too,” Moomin says warmly. “I hope it goes well.”

“I’m sure…”

(The correlation is clearly a bridge she’s yet to verbally cross and Moomin is very glad that she doesn’t.)

Her long nail titters against the glass; if she were going to spout another round of gossip she’d reach for the liquor and pour herself a new glass. She wouldn’t ask Moomintroll to pour it himself.

Instead she is vastly quiet, sorting him out.

“For their birthday,” she murmurs, “you held a vigil again, didn’t you?”

She sounds strangely accusatory; under her gaze he feels like prey being stalked by its hunter.

“I had,” he answers.

“Moomintroll,” she warns.

“I had to,” Moomin protests heatedly; his grip on Genevieve tightens to a point where she looks up. “I _needed_ to. I don’t care what you say, I— she—”

She holds up a paw.

“I know _why_ you do it,” Snorkmaiden heavily sighs. “But… Little Woodies?” she flits down to them. “If you leave us be Moominpappa will give you _three_ toffees.”

“I wouldn’t—”

“Wow, _three?_ ” Pudsey cries. He grabs his sister’s paw who complains, yanking them both away to the direction of the staircase.

Moomintroll thinks it best that he should shoo Genevieve away too; he taps her and with one paw signs, _Upstairs please._

She slinks away without a word. Off to do whatever grokelings like herself do unmonitored.

Snorkmaiden continues in private, “Does Fjarille participate?”

“She does,” he replies evenly.

“Does she _know?_ ”

Moomin retorts, “She’s _always_ known. I’m not — I’m not like him, I don’t just _keep_ things from her for sport!”

The space between her brows crinkled and he knew that she needed the full import to understand his perspective.

He splashes about the final sip of his Punsch, brewing at the bottom of the glass. “I...If I stop doing it, then… It wouldn’t have been for nothing, you know? She just...she _mattered,_ Snorkmaiden. I know we pretend she didn’t. I know Snufkin doesn’t care. But _I_ do.”

Her face is careful, there’s only a mere flick of the ear that’s easy to miss.

“And...if Fjarille had any qualms then they know they can talk to me about it.”

“Do they?”

The way she says that sends a dripping unease down his stomach; remarkably akin to the feeling of _guilt._

He drops the matter completely. “Would you like to see where we hold it?”

Snorkmaiden blinks. “Why?”

_Perhaps you can understand it better if I just showed you. Perhaps you’ll feel so sorry for me that you won’t press it. Perhaps you’ll leave me alone about it._

“Oh, I don’t know. Just because.”

He knows she thinks he’s full of it. Her coat twitches in thought, eyes razor-sharp.

Her answer is firm and it is final:

“I will give you _two_ minutes.”

* * *

She trails behind him as he leads her to the shoreline — no one travels to this particular spot, lest it’s on their birthday. He takes her to the edge of the beach where the sand sinks and the water laps at their ankles.

The seashells crinkle under her more unsteady gait; Moomin holds her paw until she moves past him. The damp splinters of light on the water seem to culminate around her figure; wherever she steps the land just claims her.

Snorkmaiden looks over her shoulder. “Is this what you do?” she asks.

“Eh...somewhat,” he settles himself on the beach to watch her; his seat is cold but it’s more that it’s wet which irks him. “The vigil is more extravagant. We have candles and use Bluebella’s flowers.”

“She lets you?”

“She doesn’t _not_ let us.”

Snorkmaiden makes a ‘hm’ sort of sound.

“Do you think about it?” Moomin asks her. “I mean, as in...what could have been.”

Her expression doesn’t stir. She walks back to set herself down right next to him. Their shoulders are squished together as she pretends she isn’t huddling for warmth.

He wraps the heavy throw around their shoulders before she starts shivering; snork fur is long but it’s not particularly thick.

Snorkmaiden keeps her gaze on the horizon and leans forward, her arms resting on her knees. Even with her form revealing nothing that she won’t allow, she’s unsuccessful in keeping her gaze unfiltered. The whole of her is simply as blue as Moomintroll is.

“ _I_ think,” she says slowly, “that you’re asking a very dangerous question.”

He lowered his head till it fit on the space between her shoulder and muzzle. Their tails entwine and they look at the sea for a long time.

* * *

There was one night that was very early into the snork sibling’s stay where the front door opened and Snufkin poked his head inside. Moomintroll noted this from the couch; it was late at night and he was halfway through a novel.

“What is it?” He doesn’t want to ruin the rarity of a quiet night, so his voice is gentle.

Snufkin walked over with wary footing, like the floor was heated.

“She’s upstairs?” he gestured his head to the ceiling, where Moomintroll’s bed would be.

Moomin nodded. “Do you want to see her?”

“No, but...” he struggled for wording; Moomintroll was patient — if he were to press for time then Snufkin would clam up altogether.

“Is she...in your bed?”

Moomintroll’s tail flicked from beneath his quilt. “Where else would she be?”

“You didn’t ask me to sleep in your bed.”

“I don’t _want_ you in my bed.”

Snufkin backstepped a little.

Perhaps that was harsh. Moomintroll explained, “I let you have the couch because you don’t like beds. If you wished to leave then you could easily have done so without waking the kids — and I was right, you _did_ leave. You pitched your tent because you’re uncomfortable inside. Snorkmaiden isn’t the same way.”

“I like beds.”

“Not mine.”

Snufkin narrowed his eyes. “Of course I did.”

“Really,” Moomin flipped a page; he found interest in a paragraph he couldn’t focus on. “Because when I’d wake up I would see that you left.” 

“Not always…”

“Are you getting anywhere with this?”

Snufkin stayed a moment too long. He tucked his eyes down into the laces of his boots and murmured, “Suppose not.”

He turned tail and left. Moomin couldn’t return to his reading after that.

* * *

“Your dry herbs are all withered now,” Snorkmaiden remarks after a week; she clasps her hip and looks up at the plants hanging from a clothesline, decorating the low wood beams jutted from the ceiling.

“Are they?” Moomintroll was too ashamed to admit that he’d completely forgotten about them. He doesn’t have to turn to feel the Knowing emanating from Snorkmaiden, stabbing his neck.

“Y’know, you don’t hibernate as often, do you?” she asks him.

“Do you?” he rebuttals.

She laughs shortly. “Not in some years, no! I was just curious, you surely know what herbs would be available this time of year.”

Moomin tightens his lip. Yes, he does; he stays awake as long as possible for Madge and Genevieve and Winnie and Fjarille. Even when he wants nothing more than to sleep for months on end; the years drag him under and it’s a tug that’s unlike anything he felt in Moominvalley. It explains how no matter how much he screamed for his parents they simply would not rouse.

The thing is, though, he’s so mentally spent that he doesn’t really know where to harvest the herbs in winter. He spends more shillings than perhaps he should, just getting them at the marketplace.

Snorkmaiden takes his hesitance as his final answer. “We should go and get some.”

“Now?” he perks up.

“Why not?” she shrugs. “That way we can hang them by dinnertime.”

Moomin points to his cutlery — he’d just gotten done emptying the cabinets to prepare a meal. “But—!”

Snorkmaiden shrieks, “CHILDREN!!”

Moomin covers his injured ears and is about to ask her _what was that for;_ right then, from all directions, they gather like her demand was a spell. All in a row like toy soldiers they look up to her, ready for instruction.

“You are all going to cook up a fine meal while we’re gone,” she tells them, wagging the wooden utensil she snatched from Moomin about, like a conductor’s baton. “It can be burned and horrid but the important thing is that it’s done.”

“Yes miss Maiden,” said the children at once, with an urgency that Moomintroll could not — would not — beguile out of them.

They went to work and Moomintroll just gawked at her. She handed him back the spoon, pleased at his reaction.

“Shall we?”

* * *

Winnie was at the dock, obviously. They’re perched on a barrel and talking more with their paws than their mouth; whatever they’re saying to Snufkin he appears to glean little, as their speeches were nonlinear. He continued wiping down his harmonica and blowing the dust out of it.

Snork was there, too, but only because the dome of his ship was open wide for fresh air. He was recording something in a small booklet by the helm, mumbling to himself. Moomintroll spotted the puff of ginger like they were his shadow, mimicking his footsteps.

Snorkmaiden goes to her brother first — she makes a poignant effort to ignore Snufkin’s greeting and bumps herself into his side as though she misstepped on a ghost.

“We’re taking The Adventure to collect winter herbs,” Moomin informs Snufkin, seeing him puzzled. “We could use an extra pair of paws.”

Snufkin’s brows tilted. “Who all is coming?”

“Er, just us,” Moomintroll gestures to the small population on the jetty. “I offered for the others to come, but they’re going to make us dinner instead.”

“Except for me!” Winnie pipes up. “I’m not allowed near the stove. Which means I should come!”

“You aren’t...and you should,” Moomin agreed — although he thinks the real reason they weren’t set to work was because they were conveniently out of Snorkmaiden’s range. Even now she holds disinterest in telling them to run along; perhaps an oversight or, perhaps, having a child will ease the inevitable tension some.

(He still doesn’t approve of Winnie being a moderator between adults. But he’s not exactly shooing them inside, either.)

“...should be enough on its own to withstand bathyal zone pressure,” Snork is saying to his sister. “Anything lower than that will opt for more crucial adjustments. I’m still not confident in giving it a test swim while we’re away from the supplies I’d need.”

“You wouldn’t know its limits unless you tried it,” Snorkmaiden confers. But her brother waves that away, understandably.

“Uncle Snork says...that— that the mermaids in the sea could help too,” Fjarille intercepts, sounding excited. “They have tons of watertight stuff!”

“Please don’t interrupt me,” Snork says. “...But they’re right. Should resources dwindle I may have to talk with some merfolk about alternative materials.”

Snorkmaiden garners as much interest as she can, only turning right as Snork is to give a big spiel. “I’ll leave you to it, then. And...I suppose Fjarille wants to stay with you?”

Moomintroll watches his daughter’s claws flex aimlessly, looking to the boat then to Snufkin, then to him, and her fists drop to her sides. She nods.

“...Alright, I still wanted to ask,” Snorkmaiden softly murmurs. She hops off the deck and back onto the pier which rattles beneath her hooves. “Do whatever you inventors do.”

“We will!” Fjarille chirps. Snork gives her an eye then returns to jotting something down.

Snufkin has already made himself at home right by the bowsprit, where he’s given a front row seat to the windblown spray of saltwater. His marrow-deep love of the sea remains as true and fierce as when they were kids.

Moomin joins him after helping Winnie and Snorkmaiden afloat; the boat hobbles with its new weight but quickly recovers, and Moomintroll walks back to man the sails.

“Do you have an _idea_ on where we’re going?” Snorkmaiden asks, striding over.

Moomintroll ensures the lines are untied before raising the sails, battling the gust of immediate wind that threatens to ram them right into the beach.

“There’s...there’s one island past the lighthouse,” he manages. The mainsail flaps ferociously behind them. “The children and I go out there often, it has lots of crannies for herbs to grow.”

“We could find something there,” Snorkmaiden concurs. “Set sail, then, captain Moominpappa.”

“Island ahoy!” Winnie cries. “Could expect some windfall that’ll make this journey swift.”

“Just don’t lean over the sides too much,” Moomin warns. He aims the sails outside of the shores and The Adventure practically flies off the grip of the island’s shores.

* * *

They dock without incident along the outer banks; the island stooping inward is a capsule of warmer weather, looking just the same as when Moomintroll had found it.

Everyone takes a moment to stretch; The Adventure isn’t often this stifling but with, in Winnie’s terms, ‘no room to swing a cat’, the journey felt more debilitating than ten minutes should allow.

“Alright,” Moomintroll addresses, having secured the lines to a tree struck down by winds and age. “We’ll separate in teams of two to cover the island from all sides. We’ll meet somewhere in the middle and compare our findings.”

Everyone concurred with this notion.

Now came the hard part. “Um...so, who would like to go with who?”

Winnie grabs Snufkin’s paw and yanks him close to their side. “We can stay together!” they announce with a toothy grin. “Mumrik n’ mumrik!”

Moomintroll sees it again — the flinch in Snufkin’s eyes and the hook of his mouth to one side; it’s like watching someone being beaten from the inside out. Moomin understands, he’s understood the moment Snufkin arrived. But Winnie is their own person; he has had the time to unlearn his trigger-tight pain when seeing them. Snufkin has not.

Snorkmaiden steps in. “Winnie, if you come with us I’ll let you wear my pearls.”

Their eyes widen.

“No,” Snufkin says abruptly. He flexes the paw around Winnie’s experimentally. A fruition of sorts. “They’re fine to stay with me. You two can go on ahead.”

Snorkmaiden’s eyes grow to topaz slits, fur flickering. At last it returns, forcibly, to its neutral golden. She reveals nothing that she doesn’t wish to.

“Very well,” she says at length. “Moomin, we can take the right side, then.”

“That sounds fine,” Moomin says.

Winnie’s tail wiggles with glee, but before tugging Snufkin along on their venture they frown a bit. “Can I still wear your pearls?”

“You may.”

Winnie outstretches their neck so Snorkmaiden could attone them like a knight with her gems. They’re ecstatic at the clinking noise they make upon every swing of their body. Snufkin dares to look amused but, as expected, it’s smothered in haste.

When Moomintroll catches Snorkmaiden’s eye, once the two mumriks have departed, he sees the stiff nod. He wouldn’t have caught it if he wasn’t anticipating it.

She sees it, too.

* * *

This island did not carry the same weight of the witch’s abandoned garden. Moomintroll has been subjected to magick since birth and knows how to identify the warp of energy, raw or expertly-strummed by its user. It equates to an undulating mass that thrums with a pulse of its own; rarely it offers a headache.

But this island...it only appears ethereal because it is _odd._ The conifers blotting the skies are thick and sturdy but they are also at the mercy of the tides. Without shelter it’s been resistant yet windswept, so the entire forest feels lenient towards an angle, its roots wrangled as it is stubbornly unyielding.

The knots of branches above coagulate downwards, so it’s like being a small critter and ambling through overgrowth. All the leaves are gone but still neither of them can see the clouds very clear. The grass is untamed and within it a webwork of heartsease, wallflower, and other shrubbery he cannot identify. There’s a few instances of sole salomes or toffles or sandpipers which have rebelled against the cold and bid how-do-you-do’s to the fellow anti-hibernators. 

Snorkmaiden takes the lead, despite her being foreign to the area; she treads seamlessly over conifer cone spikes and prickled leaves, even when her manicures make her look tremendously unfit.

“Seems if we travel inward a bit, there’d be a fair chance of parsley — mint if we’re lucky,” she spectates aloud. There’s a slice of light Moomin notes she’s holding, and when he gets closer he sees that she’s unsheathed a sickle from her bag. “Chamomile for teas, maybe some tarragon too.”

“Goodness,” Moomintroll joins her at the hip, narrowly avoiding dips in the bracken. “Are you feeling ill?”

“No,” she says. “They’re for you.”

“Me??”

“I’ve seen your collection,” Snorkmaiden says. “I know what you’re doing. Too-Ticky’s pills aren’t working again and so you’ve resorted to herbal remedies. _Again._ ”

Moomin slants his ears back. “That is none of your business.”

“It’s because of Snufkin, isn’t it?”

He crimps his mouth.

“Moomin, it’s fine if it is!” She stops and swings around to face him; he sees now that her glare is bright because she’s concerned. “I just want you to tell me. If not me then who? Your children?”

A swift panic courses through him, a primal reaction. His body knows the answer ‘no’ before he does.

Snorkmaiden steadies herself, veering into a softer presence.

“Moomintroll, if there’s anything I’ve learned about you, it’s that your ability to say ‘no’ remains unbearably unkempt,” she sighs. “And I don’t want that to happen here. Snufkin’s company is _clearly_ pressing on you. You can’t let him trample you underfoot again — you know he will.”

“I know,” he says on instinct.

“Just _be careful,_ ” she says. “That’s all I’m asking. And if...if it gets to that _point_ again,” something catches here, “then I would never be able to forgive myself.”

“It wasn’t—” Moomin hesitates; any reminder of that Protector-of-Beast’s forsaken year makes him feel small again. “It won’t be like that. I’m older now. I have a family, I have _things_ to lose.”

“And Snufkin _doesn’t,_ ” Snorkmaiden rebuttals. “That’s a dangerous combination, wouldn’t you say?”

“Snorkmaiden—”

She clicks her tongue and moves forward. She’s quiet for a while, brimming orange, and Moomintroll has no choice but to follow yet again. He tries to press his footing where she had, so there’s no humiliating stumbles.

Onwards they march, till there’s a great parting of the trees — and then, there, a clearing. Lavender stacked upon each other like competition, The skies above were parted and it was clear that this was the only bit of nutrition that the rest of the greenery could gather. The stalks brushed together and rustled a song in invitation.

“Well, by the Booble’s scales!” Snorkmaiden looks on in surprise. “Lavender! I hadn’t expected such an abundant turnout of anything! Moomin, did you know this was here?”

“I…” he pries his awestruck gaze away to tell her, “No, not at all.”

“Either way,” she readies her sickle: in one clean swipe she slashes through the exposed veins of stems as though they were hair. “This is wonderful! And there’ll be enough for bread too, maybe even perfume… We can hang some over the doorway to give you protection!”

“Okay…” Moomintroll brandishes the measly pocketknife he’d equipped — he hadn’t expected more than a few measly bits of sage. The two get to work dismembering the flock of lavender; the busywork is like an ointment for his worry-ridden head.

Snorkmaiden, thank the stars, does not enjoy the silence like Snufkin does. “You know what I was thinking?” she asks, tying her collection with a thin rope. “I think it’s about time for me to adopt another little darling again. For company, you know — train rides are so terribly boring without it.”

He knows what she’s talking about and he flicks his tail with amusement.

“You with your odd scaly pets,” Moomintroll scoffs. “First with that snake—”

“Sötnudel.”

“Then the lizard folk—”

“Pumpernickel and Darling, and they were geckos.”

“Then you had that...what was it? An armadillo?”

“Miss Marple wasn’t— is there a problem here?”

“No!” Moomintroll amends. “But it _is_ rather funny how quickly you changed your tune — you wailed at every bug you saw when we were kids!”

“I didn't like them at _first,_ ” she admits. “It was Alicia that showed me the marvels of those critters. They have such a poor name for being so sweet — wouldn’t you agree?”

Moomintroll raises one brow and gives her a very long stare.

She flushes and turns away. “Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Shut _up,_ ” her tail lashes over the grass, cutting them down, but her pelt goes rosy with embarrassment rather than any flamey shade. He burrows his amusement between a smile that he has to turn away to reveal, lest he wants a batting between the ears.

‘And I still don’t like _bugs,_ mind you!” she throws over her shoulder. “I feed them to the snakes and feel nothing but contempt!”

Moomintroll laughs. It’s such a Little My thing to say that it almost makes his heart ache.

Even with the aged sickle, Snorkmaiden expertly slices through the flowers like hot butter, collecting those that dwindle to her feet. She stuffs them into the sweet-smelling pockets of her traveler’s pouch — notably hers due to the pink daisies etched onto the leather front.

“...Would’ve been nice,” she begins after a while, “if you hadn’t been such a pushover and brought him along.”

_Oh no._

“He’s selfish,” she mutters, putting a sprig behind her ear that’s too small to harvest. “And a brute. And a _fool._ ”

“Well, don’t gloss over what you really think,” Moomintroll mutters.

“Come _on,_ Moomintroll,” she barks back, impatience flicking off her pelt. “You can stop being so soft, he isn’t here to make you feel bad for him.”

“I don’t—” He can’t even argue against that and it makes his ears hot.

Snorkmaiden latches onto his reluctance and points her sickle with the same exertion that she had with her broom at Snufkin. “If you’re not angry for you then be angry for your daughter. Can you imagine — the pain of a parent walking out, like, ‘Sorry! You are simply too much and it’s for my sake that I leave.’ How _cruel_.”

(She spoke with such vigour that he knew this struck a personal chord. He couldn’t fault her about that.)

“I _am_ mad,” Moomintroll admits, sighing. “I’m _furious._ And I want to hate him, but...Snorkmaiden, you understand. You can’t hate him either.”

Her fur puffs up before it settles. Beneath that she looks defeated.

“I can’t hate him,” she repeats. “Oh, and I wish, I _wish_ I could be so awfully wicked with him, but I...”

Moomintroll murmurs, “I do too.”

Snorkmaiden straightens up. “But I haven’t buried that hatchet yet. And I don’t believe that you should, either.”

“I haven’t buried any hatchets,” Moomin argues.

“So you shouldn’t! He’s left you to care for his child, the one that he _insisted_ on wanting before—”

“Don’t.”

“I’m allowed to say it—”

“But _don’t._ ”

Hearing the catch in his voice — rather than the nails digging into it — she concedes.

“If he just— if he weren’t so allergic to being _honest,_ ” she huffs. “You ask him how he’s doing and suddenly he’s broken out in hives.”

“I know,” Moomin says, curling his frown.

“I can’t understand you on this, Moomintroll,” she says. Hearing that stings. “I _can’t,_ I’m angry and I am allowed to be. I don’t owe him my forgiveness when he hasn’t asked for it. Has he even said the words _‘I’m sorry’_ to you? To _her?_ ”

“Snorkmaiden,” Moomintroll steps in; this is sapping his energy like nothing else, and anything more he’d have to sit down for a while. “I _know._ ”

She’s scared, he notices. She sees the exhaustion in him and she’s scared.

When he manages to look at her she’s nearly camouflaged into the purple world encasing her. It’s veering towards a baby-blue which doesn’t suit her at all, and frankly it frightens him just as much.

“He’s rotten, he showed his true colors that night, and if I— if _we_ knew...Moomintroll, we _all_ would’ve kept him as far away from you as possible.”

His heart feels wrung out, like a cloth braiding under her paws.

Moomin crosses the distance left and holds her arm. “Snorkmaiden...”

Her throat tightens. She won’t look at him.

“Rosy maiden, maiden, maiden, maiden—”

“Cut it out,” she snaps, pulling his grip away. “You’re not making me feel better with your stupid nursery rhymes.”

Moomintroll’s tone teeter-totters between bright mischief and genuine affection. He follows her. “Maiden, maiden, here’s the carousel to ride until nighttime—”

“Moomintroll, _zip it._ ”

“Ten pennies for adults—”

She interrupts with a slap and what sounds to be a curse; he can’t tell what language because she’s picked up so many on her travels. But her coat is blemished rose again, fondly. Her tone is thankfully warm.

They pick for a while longer, likely not more than an hour passes; while the lavender is a blessing their bags could only withstand so much of it. Some small purple buds cling to them like thorns; Moomintroll’s paw looks infected with some sort of pox.

“After this,” he calls over, “I’ll introduce you to the hot springs.”

The gasp she throws his way is so rewarding that he chuckles. “Moomintroll!” she scolds, “you knew there were hot springs and you didn’t think to tell me??”

He ducks away from the small pebble she chucks his direction. “I’m sorry!” he cries. “I wanted to surprise you — if we hadn’t found anything I would’ve told you earlier to lift your spirits!”

“Moomintroll, you rotten bastard, you know that we have to go and see at _once!_ ” she sounds assaulted. “Every sailor must have their own sauna to relax in!”

“You’ve only dated one!” Moomin protests. “How would you know?”

“Counting you, it’s three, actually,” she teases. “Really though, do you remember hiking up to the springs back in the valley? Wasn’t that lovely?”

Moomintroll goes soft at the memory; there’s no strings linked to that at all, it is untouched and wonderful. “Alright,” he says, and Snorkmaiden beams. “We’ll probably run into Snufkin and Winnie while we’re there, it’s on their neck of the island.”

“I’m too excited to even care,” she adjusts the strap round her torso and rushes over. “Lead the way, it’ll be good for us both!”

Moomin takes out his compass and leads her out of the lavender field, following the arrow that leads westward.

* * *

Girded between stray plants and boulders, there resided the clusters of water which pooled deep into the cliff’s cavity. It bubbled as though preparing a spell, with steam blasting heat into their faces.

Above the slope leading down, Snorkmaiden and Moomintroll sat with their knees to the grit, peeking over the stony lip.

“Oh, Moomin, it’s _wonderful!_ ” she looks to him, her face nearly glowing. “How on earth did you find it?”

“I don’t think I did,” he admits. “It was probably one of the children, they’re always looking in the spots that I wouldn’t notice.”

“Perhaps I ought to get me some, then,” she says with mischief, and he nudges her. She giggles, unhooking the purse from her side and it spews her findings along the ground. “Shall we?”

“Just watch your step.”

“Posh,” Snorkmaiden says; he waits for her to unspool all of her jewelry into a sheaf of diamonds, but she keeps her facial piercings in. “You go first and I’ll follow your lead.”

Moomintroll agrees; he makes the unsteady descent down the small embankment, tucking his feet into the awkward imprints in the rock. He tries to make it seem easy just to avoid her approaching mockery upon his manhood—

Which is an effort all for naught when he somehow slips and pummels back-first into the water. The muted slap hurts him before the sudden heat does; he thrashes in panic before his arm breaks through the burbling surface.

He’s ashamed before his head even reaches the edge of the water; it’s increased tenfold when her laugh is unforgivingly serrated.

Moomintroll looks up pathetically to see her covering her wet snorts with a paw, looking aflame like a myriad of fireworks.

“ _You_ try it, then!” he challenges, feeling burnt at both the water and her ridicule.

Snorkmaiden collects herself long enough to wipe away tears, and then she looks down with a terrible grin.

Moomin’s face falls. “Don’t you _dare_ —”

She cannonballs right at him, and he has only a second to escape the full blow of her collision. She’s able to attack the tail end of his backside — the strike of pain makes him yelp and he nurses the spot with a paw.

Snorkmaiden throws her head back and chortles. It’s not one of her performative giggles, and in any other context he’d charmed by this explicit side of herself.

Instead he just pushes a huge wave against her, making her pause and give him such an offended face.

“Your makeup is ruined,” Moomintroll smirks.

Snorkmaiden grins right back. “Is it?”

She reaches over and Moomin only has time to cry ‘Hey!’ before she pushes him down. The spring-water fills his agape mouth, tasting of sharp minerals. Her grip is released quickly before he experiences the horror of drowning.

Moomin coughs out what’s stuck in his throat unceremoniously, making her snort even more.

“You’re vile,” he sputters out.

Snorkmaiden just gives him a flap of her paw: _‘oh, you!’_

When they settle down and begin to feel the hot springs embody them like resin, the line of Moomintroll’s muscles begin to loosen. They rest parallel to each other against the stone ridge, smiling in content.

“We’ve surely angered the saunatonttu by now,” Moomin comments after a while.

Snorkmaiden looks unbothered. “We haven’t done anything more than child’s play, really. I’m in no mood to do anything more brash than that.”

“Ugh,” Moomin says.

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“Do shut up.”

She grins again, with no urgency behind it. Her head turns a bit so he can see her profile accented against the rocks. She really is beautiful; the reminder that she isn’t his nor anyone’s comes as striking.

Moomintroll very suddenly — and a bit alarmingly — loses track of whatever it is that has brought them to this point. It’s a plushy feeling that stuffs his brain full and he wishes to sleep on it. His brain floats upwards like a balloon.

He leans back and sighs, feeling the grate of the rock on his head which didn’t matter. His troubles waft overhead with the steam and something feels like the closing of a page.

Then, like porcelain, it’s all broken:

“Ahoy down there!”

Moomintroll snaps back to the present with all his senses returning. He stutters as though he’d been asleep, rubbing the repose out of his eyes like sand. “Ugh...Winnie?”

“Yeah,” he looks up to see them kneeling much too far over the precipice for his liking. They’re grinning like mad. “What are you doing? Did you get lost?”

“No,” Moomin says. He looks to Snorkmaiden, who doesn’t seem as dazed as him. “If you’re going to jump in, please take off your auntie’s pearls.”

“Fiiiiine,” Winnie groans, doing as told. They look behind them, presumably to Snufkin, and call out, “Hey! They’re over here!”

“Oh, brother,” Snorkmaiden mutters.

Moomintroll hears the pointed crunch of Snufkin’s heels meandering up the cliff, then sees the hat before his face appears. He seems more surprised than Winnie at their circumstance.

Winnie, who is flagrantly discarding their clothes, shouts, “We found lots of thyme! Thyme and...um…”

“Sweet alyssum,” Snufkin recites patiently. He holds up the said bunch containing small flowers. “It’d help your garden attract some good bugs.”

“Oh,” Moomintroll says. “Thanks.”

He nods, putting the bundle back into its side-pocket.

“Don’t be like your pappa,” Snorkmaiden advises Winnie; Moomin hadn’t noticed that in the three seconds he’d been talking to Snufkin they’re already halfway down the cliff. “Keep your claws out till you reach the water.”

“Don’t slander me in front of my own children,” he says dryly, to which she pays no mind. Winnie, thankfully, makes it safely to the water and hesitantly dips a toe in.

“It’s hot,” they say.

“It’s a hot spring, dear,” Moomin says, wading over to help them. He holds out his arms. “Come on down, I’ll catch you.”

They pummel into his hold way too roughly for the short distance between them. He gives an ‘oof!’ before setting them down; he can practically feel the beehive of excitement buzzing through their little body.

Winnie paddles around in the little space that’s shared, seeming content. Moomintroll looks lovingly over them and then his friend, who can only watch children through the lens that a birdwatcher might with their specimen.

Moomintroll calls overhead, “Snufkin?”

Snufkin perks up, as though he’d forgotten he was there as well.

“You can…” Moomin looks to Snorkmaiden, whose expression has gone carefully blank. Winnie pokes their head out from the water. “You can join us, if you’d like.”

He thinks about this. “That’s...that’s alright,” Snufkin coughs a bit. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“But,” Snufkin hedges, “I suppose we won’t return to the boat. I’ll stay with you, if you don’t mind.”

Moomintroll purposely avoids looking anywhere but at him. “That’ll be just fine.”

Snufkin leans down, delicately, to unload his backpack to where it won’t crush their belongings. He’s cautious, too, when untying his boots and placing them in alignment to Snorkmaiden and Moomin’s supplies. When he throws his legs over, Moomintroll can see the callouses itched deep into Snufkin’s black pads — mumrik paws aren’t soft like moomins but he doubts they’re supposed to look so worn down, either; not this young. The cracks in them are hard to ignore.

That’s as much as he appears comfortable showing. Even when they were young, it’d been a pain to get Snufkin to undress unless he was certain he was alone. Only when they were reunited and stupid did Moomintroll ever get to see all of him for as much as he’d like.

(When they stopped being stupid, though, Moomintroll didn’t see him naked anymore. Not with his consent, anyway; there were a lot of procedures and a lot of boundaries crushed. And a _lot_ of screaming, _get away from me, don’t touch me. Don't look at me—_ )

Winnie splashes him by a stroke of luck, then. They laugh when he nudges water right back to them, smiling absently. Snorkmaiden splashes _both_ of them with a smile as well; Moomin is certain that she’s granting him the greatest mercy by saying nothing.

Moomintroll returns to his seat against the rock, letting the heat wade back into him. He’s grateful to see Snorkmaiden keeping Winnie engaged by playing nice with whatever game they’ve roped her into.

(Snufkin keeps his shoulders stiff as he knots his ankles together, watching them with a stare frosted over like winter-glass.

It seemed that the whole of him was always carrying a sword in his bones.)


	8. the storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> uh oh

_Moomintroll let the group surge ahead of him; they’d been eager since lunch to get a headstart on constructing the new moominhouse from the ground-up, and while Moomin quarreled with letting anyone else build HIS home, which by moomin standards must be built by moomins alone...there was more to do here._

_So the volunteers left, and only Little My gave him a searing sideways glance. She knew he was muddleheaded and splitting fur, and she seemed intent on making sure he was aware as well._

_But SHE’S not the one with a sick partner and a litter on the way. So there._

_Alone, Moomintroll stretched his arms overhead and gave a tired squeak. He loosened, then trailed from the foyer to the kitchen. It’d been, measly put, a strenuous couple of nights. Mixed into the fits of claustrophobia Snufkin experienced from being house-bound, the bouts of illness were pinching together more often. He was lightheaded and quite unwell; the impromptu medical check-in following said episodes didn’t help matters._

_Nearly every stable surface is crowned with bouquets, courtesy of nearly every valley resident. Some were haphazardly picked, others were pruned, all a flare of bashful colors._

_On the tables, too, sat an array of sweets Moominmamma left out for courtesy’s sake - with all the new residents and building stress, these little delicacies became easier to digest than hearty meals._

_Moomintroll rounded the corner into an individual sitting area, often for study and music. He spotted the honey cakes on the trestle table, then the powder-dusted strawberries which tugged on his belly and gave a ruthless pull. Luncheon was over and done but dessert couldn’t hurt. And he certainly deserved it._

_He was about to snatch one when he heard the familiar mumbling of a conversation. It sounded low and private and not meant to an audience._

_“...appreciate you making it, Moominmamma,” Snufkin was saying, it seemed like he was chewing on something. “I know honey and fish is a strange thing to ask for.”_

_Moomintroll felt remarkably unwelcome. He stepped back and was ashamed when he couldn’t turn tail. He flitted his ear backwards like an eavesdropping toddler._

_“It’s no trouble at all, dear,” Moominmamma’s voice was boundlessly sunny. “I remember when I myself was expecting, I’d pester Moominpappa about turkish delights for weeks!”_

_There was a pause where Snufkin was presumably eating his meal. “Moomins are such sweet creatures,” he said at least. “It’s no wonder why I’ve been eating sugar straight from the jar.”_

_Her chuckle was good-natured. “That means they’ll be fluffed and well-fed, dear. You know, I’d often take trips to the beach, too, even when I could hardly move. I believe it shows.”_

_Snufkin asked, “How so?”_

_“Well,” her tone misted over, keening in love, “you can see it in his eyes, can’t you?”_

_Moomintroll couldn’t help bowing a smile at that; even outside Mamma’s vicinity he felt her adoration of him as inherent as the fur on his back._

_He made to leave._

_“What’s wrong, dear?”_

_That question was...very adjacent, from where Moomin stood all sounded well! There wasn’t a hitch in Snufkin’s tone or anything, and surely his expression would have been harder to excavate._

_Apparently she was right on the nail, because Snufkin gave a great sigh._

_“It’s...well,” he set something down with a clink. “I’ve had a lot of time to do some thinking.”_

_“Oh, dear,” Mamma muses politely. “Nothing terrible, I hope?”_

_He hesitates. “It’s very different to think with people in Moominhouse. I don’t even enjoy thinking on my travels, really. But there’s...there’s been a lot of odd thoughts in my brain lately. About…”_

_“The future?”_

_“About children.” The last word was punctuated so it sounded like poison. “Moominmamma, I don’t want them.”_

_“Snufkin,” she sounded cautious, as though approaching a cornered thing._

_“I don’t WANT them,” he said with more vigor. “I’ve given them more than I could ever give to anyone and they still want more and more of me. Oh, and with their crying and demands...I won’t be able to stand them.”_

_“You got on well with the Woodies,” Mamma reasoned._

_“The Woodies didn’t ruin my body. They didn’t chain me to four walls for the rest of my life. And everyone says that it’ll get better when I hold them for the first time — how every day is going to be better than the last!_

_“But what if it never gets better? What if I look at this— this bawling, wet THING and I just think, ‘is that it?’”_

_“Snufkin, dear…”_

_“And Moomintroll,” he laughed and it felt like bile, “what will he say? He’ll think I’m a monster, I can’t love ANYthing like he loves everything. I’ve tried. Mamma,” his voice pinches, “I’ve tried so hard. Please, please believe me.”_

_Moomin heard the frantic breaths of his confession etching into panic. And he stood there, frozen, as Snufkin’s words sunk into his skin like a splinter. He was horrified, and he was also very angry — how dare he think of him as the same stupid, innocent troll that never boarded The Adventure?_

_Moominmamma spoke; she sounded forcibly even and nearing a whisper, like she knew Moomin was listening in._

_“What you are feeling is alright, Snufkin, I couldn’t be mad at you.” she said. “I’m sure if you were honest with Moomintroll, he’d understand — you aren’t a monster, dear, you’re just very frightened.” She laughed a little, attempting a kinder atmosphere. “Truth be told, Snufkin, there were days I couldn’t stand the thought of motherhood, either. It’s hard, isn’t it? To give life to something that is gifted with what you never had.”_

_She sighed. “I only wish you were comfortable in telling us sooner.”_

_“I’m sorry.”_

_“It’s alright, dear. We’ll try our best to accommodate you now, as best as we can. What do you need, Snufkin?”_

_The world balanced on a pin as Snufkin appeared to think._

_What he said next, Moomintroll couldn’t decipher because he heard the shuffle of Mamma coupled with the click of footsteps, and alarm set in that he needed to leave._

_He turned and immediately trampled into someone behind him — he thought it to be one of the doctors on their hourly check-up endeavors. So Moomin was quite surprised to see that it was Toft he’d run into._

_Moomintroll stepped back. “Oh, dear! I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you there!”_

_The child managed to preserve the tea-set that they were carrying: between the teapot, cream-jar, and two matching floral cups, Moomin saw a small daisy which presumably originated from Mamma’s garden. There was a pile of tablets, too._

_“For Snufkin,” Toft said without prompt. “Are you okay?”_

_They stared into Moomintroll with eyes that held too much deepwater for someone so small._

_“I’m…” Moomin shook his head. “I’m fine. I’m just...burning the candle on both ends, I suppose.”_

_“Surely,” Toft said. Their syllables were clipped and always sounded on the verge of impatience. “A cup of tea?”_

_“No, no, that’s fine!” (He was honestly scared to death of this child found on their doorstep.) “I ought to go anyway — houses to build, cribs to make, all that sort!”_

_Toft narrowed their eyes but Moomin escaped before anything else was said._

_Something unnamed yawned in Moomintroll’s gut after that, though. Something that burned his throat and tasted ripe in his mouth._

* * *

Right beside the boat is a flutter of movement, just beneath the waves. Moomintroll spots the rippling copper body from the helm and recognizes it instantly.

“Winnie!” He cranes his neck to shout over the thundering water. “Help your brother onboard!”

They salute without question, throwing a pool of rope overboard to where a tiny paw shoots out of the waves and clutches it. Fisk surfaces and sprays seafoam in his wake, making Winnie sputter. 

The nibling shakes the water off his fur — causing complaints from Snorkmaiden as the droplets sprinkle her, and Snufkin grimaces — before trotting over to join his father in the cockpit.

Moomintroll scoops him upward with one paw, keeping the other steady on the wheel. “Hello, min alskling. Coming back from your parent’s nest?”

Fisk nods. “Yeah. They gave me part of this tire if I went back home.”

“Oh,” Moomin winces. “Lovely.”

The little nibling chews on his gift with delighted smacks, deaf to his caretaker’s disgust.

As they sail on, the island strides into view and Moomin feels the mint-sharp tang of comfort, seeing his house stark against the clouds.

“What are you going to do when we’re back on the island?” Moomin asks Fisk nicely.

He shrugs against Moomin’s hold, looking straight ahead. “I’unno, maybe talk to the fat snork?”

“Don’t speak that way about—” he straightens up. “Wait, which fat snork?”

“Hey!!” Neither pays mind to Snorkmaiden’s outburst.

“That one.” Fisk points ahead. “On the pier.”

Moomin looks: There’s a speck of The Snork’s pale wine color blemished against the blue-grey setting. 

Winnie props their knee up from where they’re set on the campnionway’s cover. “He might wanna talk about his whale.”

“Maybe,” Moomintroll says. “I don’t see why he’d want to tell _us_ about it.”

“He’s either going to complain or have something to brag about,” Snorkmaiden sighs; she listlessly flips her mane and leans against the lifeline to look as picturesque as possible.

Snufkin keeps his eyes on the sea, holding the brim of his hat against the wind, so Moomin can’t hear him that well over the wind. Mostly to himself he says, “Full speed.”

“Yip, yip,” Moomintroll sighs, also to himself. They venture on.

* * *

With Winnie left on their beachpost, Fisk races ahead of the adults to the break between the pines, where the great spruce stands decorated with chords and devices like the Fir Trees of midwinter. Moomintroll thinks that Fisk is leading them through but instead he topples into the bushes and doesn’t return, so he must’ve lost interest in The Snork rather quickly (Moomin can’t say he blames him).

The Snork hasn’t said a word since they embarked, only nodded his head to the satellites direction and sauntered ahead, expecting them to follow suit. His eyes are brutally clouded and Moomin suspects this has left his companions edging on concern.

Fjarille looks at the arriving adults with an expression mingling unease and excitement. Her paws knock against each other at her front, rubbing knuckles. At her feet lies the transistor: its guts are spewed open to reveal its internal wiring, dissected precisely.

Moomintroll nearly cries with joy to hear the static wheezing from the heart of the radio.

“You’ve fixed it!” he exclaims.

He’s hushed as Snork casts a warning eye in his direction. Fjarille, too, looks unsteady; her fur is pricked up on all ends like she’s trampled through a thornberry patch.

Something’s not right.

Beside them, a familiar creep pops his head out. He calls, “Moomin, hello!”

Moomintroll walks ahead of the others to encounter his friend. He dips his head politely. “Shadow. What’s all this about?”

“Nothing good, I’m afraid,” the creep speaks with a sobriety that is very offputting. “I see The Snork hasn’t told you of the signal?”

“What signal?”

“Snork, can you _please_ stop dawdling?” Snorkmaiden bursts out. “What in The Groke’s name is going on?”

Her brother kneels down beside his assistants, adjusting his glasses in a comfort stim.

“It was easy to catch a signal off the coast of the Americas,” Snork begins, poorly concealing his smug. “There’s no sharp transmission we could gather, but it’s cohesive. I imagine the weather might have something to do about that.”

“What kind of weather?” Snufkin, surprisingly, pipes up.

Fjarille tramples over to Moomintroll, reaching her snout up so he can pat her little nose. She explains, “Un-Uncle Snork says that the eng...english people were mad.”

“English people are always mad,” Snork sniffs. “I said that they sounded _worried._ ”

“Worried about what?” Moomin asks.

“They spoke of a storm.”

That seems to pique everyone’s interest; all the adults stand to attention and Snorkmaiden’s fur blemishes a puzzling purple.

“Well, what sort of storm?” Moomin presses. “There are hundreds of them going on right now, and here we are, dry as sandpaper.”

“When did you learn English?” Snufkin pipes up yet again.

“I could only understand bits and pieces,” Snork answers. “And they were talking about some sort of big wave that was going east.”

Moomin frowns. “Well that doesn’t bode well. Are you sure you heard them right?”

“Well, between two English speakers,” Snork nodded between himself and Shadow (and Shadow??? That’s an inquiry to tuck away for later), “We certainly heard ‘storm’. Their tones were hard to interpret.”

“I know English.”

All heads swivel dramatically downwards to Fjarille picking their sweater. With their bewildered stares searing their backside they cripple inwards a touch.

“When— how— _how??_ ” Moomin stammers.

She shrugs. “Books…”

“You didn’t think to tell us?” The Snork rises immediately and when Fjarille topples backward Moomintroll’s fur bristles in warning. Snork’s fur goes orange to neutral on command, but he glares downward.

“You aren’t in trouble,” Moomintroll lowers to speak with them properly, petting the space between their antennae. “I know you’ve been very quiet lately, moth—”

“ _Snufkin!_ ” Everyone turns to Snorkmaiden, faking a cough and looking prominently in Snufkin’s direction. “Oh, terribly sorry,” she holds her chest but her face is wry. “I must be coming down with something, please continue.”

“...Buuuut,” Moomin returns to rubbing his daughter’s head in reassurance. “What did the Englishmen say? You’re very smart and all the grown-up’s wish to know.”

(Although reluctant still, it’s very cute the way her antennae twitch upright and flicker happily. Her tail wags.)

“They said— they said there was going to be….a big flood comin’ in. A typhoon.”

“A typhoon?” Panic threatens to hook Moomin’s voice and tug dangerously, but he’s also an adult and has learned how to level himself.

“Is that bad?” Her antennae droop.

“It’s...” Moomintroll stalls when his head goes blank. He tries again, “It’s just a storm we’ll need to prepare for. We certainly can’t just leave this house and build a new one.”

“Why not?” Snork cuts in, incredulous.

“Because I _can’t,_ ” Moomintroll snaps. “Moominhouses are built to last, Snork. If I were to leave, then…”

“He’s right,” Shadow steps in. “Moomins aren’t the same as snorks, y’know. They build their hearts into their homes.”

(From the corner of his eye Moomintroll sees Snufkin stutter back a little and put his head down.)

Snork makes a rather disgruntled, and quite offensive, noise about this. But in the end, he concedes with a great exhale. “Fine then. Best thing to do now is prepare for the worst, it sounds like this is going to be like the great flood.”

“You do _not_ get to say that,” Snorkmaiden shocks everyone with her snarl; Moomin understands, though, and Snufkin does too. No one lost anything more than she did back then.

With a breath, gathering herself, Snorkmaiden reaches out to stroke Moomintroll from his elbow to the shoulder and smiles. It feels like a balm against a rash.

“We’ll be glad to stay,” She stares past Moomin’s shoulders, adding pointedly, “and we _will_ stay.”

Snork sighs again, nearing a scoff. “We’ll stay, but I’ll take to my projects, thank you very much.” Looking at the packing clouds he adds on, “It might do us some good to see that it’s done.”

“If you think so,” Snorkmaiden says.

“I’m glad to have good company at the least,” Moomin says lowly, but with shame he knows Snufkin is overhearing. “It’s welcome after...everything.”

Once again Snorkmaiden muffles into her fist, “ _Snufkin!_ ”

“Ought to get that cough checked out,” Snufkin mutters dryly.

“I’m glad to help,” Shadow asserts gently. “I can move our bearings in by tonight, there’s hardly much to pack for us as you know.”

“Are we going to die?” Fjarille asks.

“ _No!_ ” All the adults speak up at once.

Moomintroll retracts seeing how it’s not the weather which worries her, but the grown-ups encasing her.

He kneels down and extends a paw that she takes. “We’re going to be just fine, my dear. Nothing will happen to us that we aren’t prepared for. Us moomins,” he stops, “we’re used to storms. This will be no different, I promise you.”

* * *

The days following the signal are salient.

Whether from foreknowledge or the darkening horizon, there was a buzz of panic that transferred into everyone’s routine. The children were tasked with the interior chores, mostly — rummaging through food supplies, readying the garden for a hasty harvest, gathering candles and whatnot. When someone went to warn the Sink-Dweller of the circumstances, there was only a letter of chicken-scratch left behind. They could only speculate that he caught word and left prior.

The Snork is entrenched to his devices — it’s more improbable now to detach him from his studies than ever and if not for Snorkmaiden threatening to physically cram food down his throat, he’d surely vanish into smoke.

The air tastes of static. Moomintroll smacks his lips against it while he prepares the sailboat to venture inland — once the rainfall would hit they’d all have to evacuate quickly before they’re trapped inside with limited rations. It’s crucial to rely on realism instead of Snork’s wild fantasies of his ship actually working last minute.

If it weren’t for the clouds burning black it’d be hard to account for the time; there were no thin streamers of light left. The sun was simply gone.

“It’s like the sky is on fire,” Moomin had heard Pudsey say — hopefully not to Skiffle who was so wary of flames already — “Smoke from a billion chimneys!”

Indeed, it sure seemed that way. The air was thick and it tasted like rolling a coin in your mouth. Snorkmaiden pointed out the hattifatteners from nearby isles were faintly glowing; the humming of their little bodies felt louder.

And Snufkin...does whatever snufkins do when they’re pressed for time. If not for the waves Moomin is sure he would’ve packed up long ago. Now he stews in place unpleasantly; it doesn’t help that he’s stuffed inside from the barreling winds which threaten to eat up his tent. Although if he goes downstairs late at night, Moomintroll will still find his sleeping spot empty; he doesn’t know where he goes and frankly can’t care now.

Everything is _really_ fucking hard-pressed. It’s enough to drive anyone stir-crazy; the more fretful children will bundle up in Moomintroll and Snorkmaiden’s bed, minus Fjarille. Who still sleeps in The Snork’s residence and evades everyone’s grasp like a flicker of movement behind your eyes. Moomintroll still hears the crackle of the transistor from the woods, the tinned foreign languages that seem to only make sense to her. He doesn’t go there anymore.

If he has _one_ more conversation with anyone he’s going to lose his mind.

The sea is a god’s wrath that is uncontained; as a former sailor Moomintroll is surprised at how often he’ll still forget that. It’s easy to forget the muffled silence as a humming pulse until there’s a new weight to the quiet, and at once the rising tides become the exposed veins of an injured thing.

There is no way to patch up the wound of the ocean, there is only waiting for the hurt to flush itself out.

* * *

“You have a phone call,” Skiffle calls from hir room.

Moomin stares at hir like ze’s speaking English. “What?? A phone call?” Unspoken (because it’s embarrassing): _‘we have a phone?’_

Skiffle’s forehead creases. Ze clearly heard his thoughts to Moomin’s dismay. “Don’t tell me you forgot we had one.”

“Shush up!” his face burns. “Where has it been all this time?”

“In my room.”

“ _Please_ don’t steal our telephone.”

Skiffle shrugs; the warning surely won’t register and this is a conversation they’ll probably repeat later on. Ze says, “It’s Moominfarfar. He wants to speak with you.”

“Pappa??” Moomin starts. “Is everything alright?”

“Well, he sounds cheery, but he always does. So I couldn’t say.”

That’s painstakingly fair. The upside of things is that Pappa still has the means of communicating despite the distance. This fares well in the face of the typhoon, since Pappa is farther out at sea than him.

Moomintroll has Skiffle leave hir room before pressing the receiver to his ear. He takes a breath, holds it, and says, “Hello?”

“ _Goddagens_ , my boy!!” Moomin yanks away the phone to regain his hearing; he’d forgotten how boisterous Moominpappa would become after intervals of disconnection. “How’s the weather faring on your end?”

“Uh…” he pats his ear then resumes. “Sorry, what? Weather? Oh, you must mean the storm.”

“Storm indeed!” Moominpappa sounds much too excited. “It’s shaping up to be a rough one out here, I imagine the inlands won’t be any better! I haven’t heard of a typhoon to be this disastrous since my child years!”

That’s not good…

“But I’ve packed a good portion of my bearings, no worries! The valley is a fortnight away and we should be able to ride out the winds fairly well—”

Moomintroll jumps up. “You’re going to the valley?”

“For the time being, yes,” Moominpappa replies casually. “This storm doesn’t bode well, and I _am_ getting a bit grey in the muzzle. If the lighthouse were to overturn, I certainly couldn’t dig my way out.”

Hearing him speak like that — somber, reproachful — is a jumpstart up Moomin’s spine.

“I’ve phoned your mother already, of course,” he goes on. “She’s happy for the company! We both know why you left, son, but you can imagine the gloom of an empty nest!”

“She’s not alone, Pappa. The valley takes care of her.”

“Nothing lifts the spirit like a child at home, dear one. You ought to know that by now,” Moominpappa’s smile wavers, even over the phone; Moomintroll imagines that he looks a bit sad on the other end.

“Yes…”

“In any case!” Moominpappa livens up and Moomin pulls the phone away again. “Any news on the front from your little abode?”

Moomintroll _really_ considers telling him the truth. But with the weather unfolding, coupled by his father in the process of evacuating, it hardly seems appropriate. There is a fair chance that Pappa will blow his lid over Snufkin’s reappearance; he’s never been a reliable audience for staying unbiased.

So he just swallows. “I… Nothing comes to mind, no.”

“Tally ho!” Moominpappa’s voice grows distant as he appears to look over at something; in the backdrop Moomin catches the thud of the waves against rock and a loud yell amongst the racket. “The Lighthouse Keeper is insisting we get on, the nearest spot of land is days off!”

“Good luck, Pappa,” Moomintroll says in earnest. “Please be safe.”

“There’s no fun in that!” he scoffs. Only a beat later does he amend, “But for your mothers’ sake and yours’, I’ll spare the luxury of battling sea monsters. Just till the clouds part!”

“We both appreciate that very much.”

“How I miss her food...she offered to make some blueberry pie for my return! Aren’t I just the luckiest moomin?”

“You sure are,” Moomintroll desperately inches out of conversation; Pappa could ramble for hours if unchecked. “Speaking of, I ought to go make lunch for the kids. They’ll need a good meal if we want to prepare, after all.”

“Of course, of course,” Pappa says blithely. “Expect the worst and pray for the best!”

“Always.”

“Tell them I have an abundance of sea-treasures when I visit next!”

“I will.”

Moomintroll hangs up for them both.

* * *

Even with the windows boarded up, Moomin still rings the dinner bell. The waves are violent prongs of foam and needle-sharp water, but the lights of Moominhouse are still on, bleeding through the outlines of the door.

“I should get the clothes inside,” Shadow reports from below the sink; he and his wife have moved into the Sink-Dweller’s home for the time being until, or if, he returns. “I’m afraid if I wait any longer they’d be soaked!”

“Go on, then,” Moomintroll holds the door open for him, the sweat of the ocean beading on his fur. Shadow scurries off and Moomin clicks the door tightly closed.

The dining table is smothered with the few vegetables the family could save from the gardens. Snorkmaiden has set Skiffle and Madge to peeling the potatoes and the others to shelling peas. The curls of the potato skins pool by the chair legs while the snow-pea’s carapaces are rudely flicked off the tablecloth.

Snorkmaiden is on dinner duty by her own ruling. She’s taken one of Moominmamma’s gifted aprons, pinstriped gold, and monitors both a sweating kettle and sizzling, massive pike, divided into chunks to cook faster.

“I can make dinner,” Moomintroll repeats for the umpteeth time.

“If you tell me what to do _one more time,_ ” Snorkmaiden doesn’t turn around but she’s merging onto maroon-red, “I’ll ring your tail till it comes clean off!”

The children snicker, as their Snorkfaster’s ability to nonplus their father will always be funny.

Moomintroll sighs and takes his seat alongside his kids. The family is pooling their pickings into a colander placed as the centerpiece; when it becomes full they’ll wash the vegetables for supper.

“You can eat what’s on the floor if you’re so keen on being messy,” Moomintroll comments offhand, seeing the peels and shell-casings scattered. He begins to chop the herbs and hears the frantic shuffling of tidying up

At dusk, the shadows wane with a new livelihood to them; the raggled wick has left the candlelight too watery and dim to provide anything above a flicker. The kitchen looks unfamiliar, the darkness dancing on all the wrong angles. 

The kettle shrieks and Snorkmaiden removes it from the stovetop, dividing the hot water into several teacups. She sets the pot back and begins to stir each one individually.

“You can just let them steep for a couple of moments,” Moomintroll advises her.

“I think it tastes nicer if you tend to them,” Snorkmaiden replies. “Otherwise it’ll just sit on the bottom like silt.”

Her rebuttal is final and not worth a debate. He sits back in his chair instead, inspecting his work.

“The wind is picking up,” Skiffle notes absently; ze’s right, there are the knockings of many sea-spirit’s hands pummeling against the house, shuttering the rafters.

“You think the wind will rip up the house?” Posey asks timidly. Her brother adds more enthusiastically, “Like Dorothy!”

“That’s stupid,” Fisk sniffs. “Dorothy isn’t real.”

“Is not stupid!”

As they banter on, Winnie asks over their heads, “Is Snufkin coming in?”

“I’m sure he will soon,” he mutters in turn, seething with disinterest. “You know how he is with his naps and his fishing.”

“He promised to come in and help with my present.”

“Your present?”

“For Fjarille, remember?”

Moomin straightens up in surprise. “You _still_ haven’t given it to her?”

“It’s not _done!_ ” Winnie protests. “Snufkin’s gonna help me with it.”

Snufkin. Fjarille…“Where _is_ Fjarille?”

“I’unno,” they shrug. “Probably at the radio.”

“At _night?_ ”

By chance the front door opens and Snufkin, bundled into thick wool jackets, stepping inside. His florid complexion is swollen from the wind’s beatings. Moomin spots the silver lines he’s holding in one fist, supporting the bodies of salmon shimmering opalescent.

“For supper,” Snufkin says, voice ragged from the cold. He holds up his winnings and the children’s bellies all seem to rumble at once.

“Very nice,” Moomintroll notes. “You can set those on the counter and I’ll fillet them in a minute for storage.”

“I could do it.”

“That’s fine, I’ll do it. Thank you.”

“I insist,” Snufkin heads to where Snorkmaiden is stirring drinks. “I’m happy to freeze them for you.”

“You don’t think I can do it myself?” Moomintroll voluntarily sharpens the mood on whetstone like a blade. He shouldn’t, he knows it’s such a slippery slope, but...there’s a jab at the core of him from how Snufkin speaks. _Has_ been speaking since he arrived.

“I didn’t say that.” Snufkin’s tone is disgustingly neutral.

Moomin bumps the table as he stands; he hears the children murmur uneasily. “Y’know, it’d be better if you just admitted that you still see me as a stupid child.”

This slips Snufkin up a little and Moomin notices. His brows knit together a touch. “H— What?”

“ _Boys,_ ” Snorkmaiden faces them both now and gestures to the kids, reminding them both of their spectators.

“I’ve never said anything of the sort,” Snufkin goes on. “If you want to believe that I don’t—”

“I don’t just _believe_ things,” Moomin snaps. “Stop watering down what I have to say! And if I am believing, or _feeling_ , then so what? Better than being a _mumrik._ ”

That gets him a spate of flaring eyes, pupils slimming; Snufkin’s fur rises. “ _Excuse_ me?”

(Somewhere in the back of his brain Moomintroll acknowledges Snorkmaiden’s hushed, deliberate murmur as the children’s chairs grunt while they’re removed from the room. “Some things need to be said,” she tells them.)

“All you’ve _done,_ ” Moomin continues, “is discard my feelings — _our_ feelings. You just gather yourself with the children that don’t _know_ you so they admire your every move!”

Snufkin’s stare glints. “You’re making _extremely_ dangerous assumptions.”

“ _Am_ I??” Moomintroll snaps. “Because the moment I stop waiting for you on paw and foot, you seem to disappear!”

“I do _not,_ ” Snufkin spits, haltingly. There’s a curl of malice brewing there that’s never been there before.

“You DO, you’ve come back and you’re just _expecting_ me to let you back into my life—”

“You said that I’d leave eventually and I will—”

Something _explodes_ inside his body. He lashes forward. “Oh aren’t YOU just smart! Go on, then, keep standing there with your puffed-up _twaddle_ — just make me look stupid like you always do for actually _feeling_ something!”

Snufkin makes to speak—

“How about you be a goddamn adult for once in your life — instead of throwing tantrums when something isn’t about you!”

“Are you _really_ one to talk?” Snufkin intercepts, dripping with contempt. “All you’ve _ever_ done is make everything about yourself! You think I always came back to you because I _wanted_ to??”

Moomin’s oncoming tangent sputters and dies at the edge of his mouth. He can only watch Snufkin scoffing with a slack jaw, the hurt splitting his belly open.

“I did _everything_ for you and it just wasn’t enough. It was never enough— you’re just this— this black, childish hole of WANT. ‘I want you to stay’ and ‘I want you to stay in _our house_ ‘, come _on_ , Moomintroll.” Snufkin’s fur is spiked up like fangs, “It’s no wonder why you bring in all these children, it’s not for them!”

Moomintroll’s glare widens. “You don’t know what I want!”

“Gods, why did I _ever_ waste my life on you?” His scream chokes bright with emotion. “Why did I even— you just _used_ me—”

“And _you_ didn’t use _me?_ ” Moomintroll yells. “Have you even THOUGHT about Fjarille since you were gone? Did you ever think to write to her, or call her? Or did you just see her as another one of your little playthings?”

“ _My_ playthings??” Snufkin spits. “I’m not the one that barricaded himself on an island and adopted kids that he knew would _want_ him!”

“At least I’m _trying_ to be a parent instead of running away like _you’ve_ done!”

“At least you _had_ parents!”

“Are you really going to do this?” Moomintroll advances forward; Snufkin steps back. A growl emits from his lower belly. “Are you really going to play that card? Don’t you realize that the orphan spiel is redundant now?

“Because Lady Mymble _tried_ to reach out to you,” Snufkin’s eyes widen, he knows where this is going, “and The Joxter did, too. He wrote you letters, do you remember that? No, you don’t, you know why? Because you _threw them out._ You told me you did. You throw out every single letter you’ve been given so you don’t remember any address.”

Snufkin’s face has fallen like pillars. He looks deathly pale, his cheeks blemished like someone has struck him.

Moomintroll scoffs as deathly-quick as a bullet. “You just want to be the sorriest thing in the world. You want people to feel bad for you so you don’t have to change. It’s always someone _else’s_ fault, isn’t it? Well, how is _this_ Fjarille’s fault? No, really— tell me how it’s your CHILD’S fault that YOUR parents didn’t love you enough to your liking?”

“Shut up.”

“For years— for YEARS I’ve had to let her down easy. I had to pretend you still loved her—”

“Shut _UP_.”

Moomin’s voice laces in pain, throwing his arms up. Something in him wobbles like a dislocated bone. “I let you get away with so much, because we all loved you. _Fjarille_ could have loved you… And you threw that all away—”

“I _couldn’t_ stay—”

“That’s right. Because you ‘wouldn’t be able to stand them’, could you?”

It takes a moment. But then Moomintroll’s implication soaks in like wildfire, spreading across Snufkin’s face slowly but certainly. His hackles and shoulders are so brittle like an arrow pulled to its string limits.

Moomintroll’s voice lowers to a mumble, deceptively soft. “You hate us because she expects more than I ever did— and you could run away from _me,_ but you can’t from her. And it scares the shit out of you because finally, your actions _hurt_. And you just dig that claw deeper and deeper because you don’t know how to pull it out...

“Oh no, Snufkin. You’re not like your parents at all. You’re _worse._ ”

He lunges with a broken, wet yowl—

Moomin staggers back — the flash of pain on the sensitive ridges of his snout collects and begins to _sting._

He watches through a dark lens as Snufkin retracts. His eyes widen in horror. His voice lodges itself in its throat, he brings his paw up and sees the dark blood beneath the claw-tips.

“Moomin, I—”

“Don’t.” Moomintroll wipes his face, smearing his arm red. He glares head-on till the other stumbles back with his tail between his legs. “The moment this storm passes, you are out of this house. And you will _never_ come back.”

Snufkin’s whole body winces.

Moomin jabs a finger at him, sharp as a dagger. His voice is bone-cold. “Leave me and my daughter _alone._ Do you understand me?”

His eyes are rippling but no tears fall from them.

“Snufkin, _do you understand?_ ”

Snufkin makes for the door and doesn’t bother to close it as he runs out.

Moomintroll is locked in place. The vents course through him like alcohol, where the effects are soon to take their toll. If not for the creak of the floor behind him he’d have just stayed until he rotted.

It’s a testament to her character how Snorkmaiden stands back, colorless, and simply watches him. Still, Moomintroll feels the sharp words she’s brewing inside, acidic and cruel and probably fair.

“How much did you hear?” Moomintroll finds that his voice is rickety. It flickers like the candlelight, dulling.

Snorkmaiden’s gaze flits with something, just a moment. “Neither of you were exactly quiet.”

He looks away. “And the children?”

“In their rooms.”

“Right.”

“Moomin…”

He turns from her, walking away slowly so she can’t see that this is a retreat. Everything in his body feels butchered. He wants to sleep and not wake up until everything stops pulsing.

He goes to the stairway, as there’s nothing else to do, and lugs his weight onto the first step.

There’s a spot of ginger waiting for him farther up; their fur is prickled up like cockleburrs.

“Fjarille.” Moomin exhales. “Go to your room until dinner.”

Her eyes are watery like molten gold, and he notices that the fur around her snout is slickened down in the pathway of tear-stains.

“H-he…” Fjarille’s voice is hoarse and crumbled along the edges; fire swallowing paper. “He would’ve...he would’ve st-stayed if...if it was h-h-her.”

A hurt he hadn’t felt in a long time pounces to the forefront; his heart splits. He hangs his head and grumbles, “He wouldn’t have stayed for either of you.”

Snorkmaiden gasps horribly. “ _Moomintroll!_ ”

It’s much too late. Fjarille flinches back and makes a terrible noise in the back of her throat. An onslaught of horribly-thick tears bleed from her narrowed sockets and she trips going up the stairs, fleeing to a space Moomin cannot reach.

This night feels absolute. He’s going to be branded with this for a very long time, and it’s the most unpleasant, awful, horrid guilt he’ll ever feel.

The slivers of hope he’d burrowed away — of Snufkin, of _them_ — dissipate like the sun in the clouds, all at once.

Moomintroll doesn’t know if he says sorry or not. He turns tail the way that Snufkin left; he closes the door for them both.

* * *

Outside his cuts really begin to pronounce itself. He winces as he toys with them, like touching it incessantly is going to magically cure it. But Moomin guesses that it’s four jagged cuts, each different in depth based on how close Snufkin had struck.

The rain still hadn’t come and no one wanted to take the dishware to wash them. He’d broken a few plates by staggering onto the rooftops; he noticed that they were either crusty or collecting mold from where they hadn’t been scrubbed well enough.

He hears the thump of the ladder and sighs.

“You need to be inside.”

“So do you,” Madge retorts, not unkind. It sounds a bit like cloistered upset, if Moomintroll strains.

He gives her no response, so she digresses. He peeks over to see her climbing up the moominhouse tree jutted from the ceiling, as nimble as all the other tickies Moomin has met. Her claws dig ruthless into the bark and leave similar scratches to the one Moomin is currently nursing.

Beyond them comes the all-too familiar plucking of a lute. It’s deflated in tune, hauntingly so; even when he conducted heart wrenching songs they had a spunk of optimism. Moomintroll can’t hear anything but a song lacquered in mourning, twisting his insides.

The multi-faceted prism of how Snufkin grieves is difficult to navigate, it always has been. Here, though, in his music, it feels like the unfurling of a rotten ache that’s too painful to face head-on.

“He plays well,” Madge finally admits. She sits by her foster guardian, but not exactly _with_ him; she rests idly above his head on one of the branches. Moomintroll hears the curt swipe of a match being lit.

He opens his mouth to request she watch where she dumps her ashes, but closes it.

“I don’t have to stay,” she continues with a pinch of sympathy. “I’m not here because I need you, I’m nearly half your age. I stay because you’re kind.”

Moomintroll looks up at her. “Not always.”

“No one is,” she shrugs, occupying her lips with her pipe. 

It all comes pouring into him like syrup before Moomin pricks his ears suddenly, hearing the distant calling of the grokes travelling through.

“They’re singing again,” he remarks.

Madge gives an acknowledging noise.

“They seem closer,” he says, quieter this time.

The grokes were merely distance lumps, moving on the plain of sea where it was less turbulent. Neither Snufkin’s tune nor the groke’s song fit quite well — it was too offbeat to really sync — but it felt like separate sadnesses sewn together, mismatched but kindred.

Moomintroll didn’t know which to focus on and so he stared out to the sea’s edge, letting the cacophony drift in and out of his focus until it became nonsensical sobs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [snufkin's song 2.0](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YqPmt5MWDuM)


End file.
